
Class JE33l^yr- 
Book '^±^lE1 



Copyright N"_ 



['=12,0 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



FOIBLES 



A FARCICAL COMEDY 






BY 



FRANKLIN P. NORTON 

Author of Six Dramas of American Romance 

and History 



THE SECRETARY OF STATE 

FINANCIER OF NEW YORK 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, OR THE REBELLION 

OTOMIS. THE INDIAN OF MEXICO 

THE THIRD TERM 

KING OF WALL STREET 

and of 

MACHIAVELLI 

THE LADY OF THE SWAMP 

WHOSE WIFE? 

KINGDOM OF MIND 



For information regarding these ('lays, terms, etc., address 

THE SCHULTE PRESS 
80-82 Fourth Avenue 

New York, N. Y. 



Copyright, 1920 by 

Franklin P. Norton 
autlior 



©CI,'J 55577 



SEP 23 \m 



f.^ 



<\ 



.^' 



<^\s 






A 



FOIBLES 



A FARCICAL COMEDY 



DRAMATIS PERSON AE. 



Mr. Pullwool, a Philanthropist. 

Mr. Knoblock, a General. 

Mr Postem, a Minister. 

Mr. Killem, a Doctor. 

Mr. Law, a Senator. 

Mr. Mirabeau, an Ambassador. 

Mr. Bacon, a Poet. 

Mr. Dauber, an Artist. 

Mr. Staker, a mushroom Millionaire 

The Gabbler, a Friend of Law. 

Harold, Mr. Staker's Son. 

Bobbie, the Artist's Child. 

Rozzi, a Cook. 

Pluto, a colored Servant. 

A Policeman. 

A Street-Urchin. 

A Dutchman. 

A Me.ssenger. 



Noted 
and 
> Great 

Men. 



Mrs. Pullwool. I Wives 
Mrs. Knoblock. [of the 
Mrs. Postem. ^ great 

Mrs. Bacon. I men 

Mrs. Staker, Wife of Staker. 
Miss Law, an Old-maid. 
Janitress, of the Block. 
Bridget, a Waitress. 
Jane, a disgruntled Servant. 
Otis, the Philanthropist's Son. 
Gertrude, Mr. Staker's Daughter. 

Edward, Mr. Staker's Son. 
Violet, the Poet's Daughter. 

Alexander, the General's So 
Ruth, the Minister's Daughter 

Noel, the Senator's Son. 
Hazel, Mr. Staker's Daughter 

Pierre, a Chef. 
Eliza, a Chambermaid. 



Lovers. 



5 "■ 



I 

I Lovers. 

"■ (. Lovers. 

) Incipient 
) Lovers. 

Lovers. 



Scene — Neif York City, N. Y. 



ACT 1 



Scene 1 — An exclusive Block of elegant Residences, 
with a Larvn in front, on West End Avenue, 
occupied by the noted and great. The fronts 
of the residences arc seen in the background, 
and the stage represents the lawn, zvith a low 
stone curb near the footlights, and between this 
curb and the footlights, is the imaginary side- 
walk. The wings are painted to represent 
appropriate foliage, and there are some flowery 
embellishments, clsezvhcre: a few iron-benches 
are scattered about. The stage is only zmdc 
enough to show 3 house-fronts, and the other 
6 must be imagined. The 3 slwwn, are desig- 
nated — going from right to left — first, second, 
third. 
Enter Eliza from the basement of first house. 

Eliza. What if I do have a weakness for men 
ini uniform — policemen, soldiers etc ? It is a failing, 
to be sure ; but everybody, whether rich or poor, 
humble or great, has some weaknesses or failings, 
of one kind or another — commonly called! foibles: — 



and these very imperfections draw them closer to- 
gether; for the poet said, "One touch of nature 
makes the whole world kin :" while those who ape 
perfection, are so tiresome and uninteresting, that 
they are left to themselves. Oh how I enjoy flirting 
with the different coppers, on the beat, that super- 
cede each other every few months :— but ah ! Pierre, 
the chef next door but one, is the only one who 
has really touched n\y heart. I could never marry 
anyone else: (sadly) Nor him neither I fear, for 
while possessing good looks and form, he shows so 
ridiculous in his long white-apron, that I can't 
stomach his attentions; and am forced to foil his 
incessant ardor with mischievous rebuffs. — Ah, here 
comes a uniform! 

Enter a Policeman, right. 

PoL. Ah there, my size! 

Eliza. Don't be fresh : besides, that is a chestnut. 
Pol. Not as I mean it : using s-i-g-h-s for s-i-z-e. 
Eliza. Well that's diflFerent— You are a new 
cop on the beat? 



FOIBLES 



Pol. Yes, this is my first round. Passing by, I 
saw a vision — 

Eliza. Be careful now. 

Pol. Of beauty ! on a beautiful lawn ! and enter- 
ed. 

Eliza. Didn't you see the signs all over ; "Pri- 
vate, no admission except on business?" 

Pol. Well I had business. 

Eliza. What was it? 

Pol. To jolly you. 

Eliza. Ah, g'wan! — Tell me, why is it that all 
you policemen are such jolliers? 

Pol. Well, you see we have a lot of idle time 
on our hands ; and the best way to kill it, is to coddle 
all the pretty women on the beat. Is it wrong? 

Eliza. Not essentially: but long indulgence has 
made it a failing — or rather, its s>-nonymous term 
that is applied when the weakness is sentimental- 
frailty. 

Pol. (laughing.) You've got it right. — Well this 
side of the block, is one of the finest sights in this 
great City of New York: with this lovely deep 
lawn, stretching from street to street, in front of 
elegant residences. 

Eliza. There used to be a front fence, and 
partition fences; but the partitions were removed 
in order that the tenants might use the whole lawn 
in common, and the front one was replaced by that 
low stone curb. 

Pol. Let's walk along the lawn as we talk. 

Eliza. You are afraid that the roundsman 
will catch you loitering: so were the others. 

Pol. Ah, the others, eh ! You let the cat out 
of the bag that time. 

Eliza. Well, what of it. (Exeunt left) 

Enter Pierre, Tmth a chef's white-apron on, ex- 
tending from n\eck to feet, from the basement of 
third house. 

Pierre. Confound that cop, how can I make him 
quit Eliza? (Enter a boy on sidewalk, right). Ah 
I have a scheme — I say boy, here is a quarter for 
you : when I cry out "stop thief," keeping on the 
sidewalk you tear along past that cop on the lawn. 

Boy. But he may catch me. 

Pierre. In that case I will say that it was only 
a joke. Will you do it? 

Boy. Certainly, boss. 

Pierre. Here, take the money — Now for it. 
(Pierre yells "stop thief" and boy runs away left). 

Ha, ha, the copper is chasing him out of sight! 
Now to join Eliza — Ah here she comes. 

Eliza, (re-entering left). Oh there is that hor- 
rid white-apron again. 

Pierre. Yes, my adorable one! 

Eliza. Every time that I come out here for an 
airing, you show up — How do you know of my 
coming? 

Pierre. Can't one peep through the basement 
windows ? 

Eliza. Yes, if he is silly enough — but now I say 



what should have been said before: don't you dare 
to pester me any more. 

Pierre. Oh, can't you give me some hope ! 

Eliza. What you? pooh, you are only a chef, 
in the Doctor's family. 

Pierre. But you are only a chambennaid, in the 
Minister's family. 

Eliz.\. Only— say you? Why even nobility have 
always sought to be maids — of honor ; and they are 
not to be compared with chamber — maids. 

Pierre. That is surely an optimistic way ot look- 
ing at it. 

Eliza. Besides, I am employed on this the most 
exclusive block, on West End Avenue, where none 
but the noted and great live- 

Pierre. Well, I work too on this same block. 

Eliza. I know that, Pierre, but it makes no 
difference. While I have a sneaking fondness for 
you — 

Pierre. Ah do you admit so much! Then you 
can't possibly refuse an embrace- (He approaches 
her with open arms, and she opens her arms, and 
then drops them with a titter). No, no, I couldn't 
endure it; you look like a calf in that white-apron; 
I abhor you in it! 

Pierre. The same old prejudice: Where is your 
taste Eliza ? I thought it was very becoming to me. 

Eliza. You look like the devil in it, to speak 
plainly. 

Pierre, (sadly). You don't say — Then I will 
be a chef no longer, but get another job ! 

Eliza. No, don't bother: it is too late now; I 
could never see you without recalling the absiu'd 
thing. 

Pierre. Oh cruel pitiless Eliza ! 

Eliza, (kindly.) Don't blame me. Pierre ; blame 
the big bib ; it makes me always do whii I regret 
doing — speak harshly to you. (She starts to go). 

Pierre, (getting in her way). Oh don't leave 
me! 

Eliza, (vexed). Keep away— bah! (Exit, into 
basement). 

Pierre. What is to be done ? I am distracted ! 
I am in despair!— Ah she loves uniforms: why not 
dress up in a handsome one and try and win her 
that way? That's worth thinking over. — Her dis- 
like for me in this apron is unaccountable: I think 
that I look very distinguished in it: (struts around) 
and doubt if I can give it up altogether even for her 
sake- Indeed, it is a fact, that the liking to wear it, 
quite laudable in itself, has become so unnatural, 
that it amounts to a foible. (Exit, into basement.) 

Enter the Janitress from the front-door of second 
house. 

Jan. Thank goodness, I have got the vacant 
house all ready for the new tenants, just as they are 
expected. Oh I am just tuckered out — but what 
can I do ? Unmarried women have to support them- 
selves: (and married ones often do too"). But being 
janitress is no snap job: the work is hard, and the 
tenants are fault-finding and exacting. Strange, 



FOIBLES 



though they do live in elegant houses, it seems as 
hard for them to make both ends meet, as it is even 
for poor people. It would astonish society, if they 
knew what common drudgery, yea even outlandish 
things, they do ; in the struggle to keep up, by inner 
economies, outward appearances. In the main, they 
do their own housework, cooking, dressmaking and 
washing; and take in work to do at home, such as 
shirtwaists, artificial flowers etc. Some of the males, 
even lend a helping hand at these prosy but useful 
labors ; and besides, often darn their own stockings 
and sew on their own buttons. Are their lives, I 
wonder, a fair sample of the lives of people m their 
class ? No doubt this block is an aggravated case — 
but in a measure they are. 

Enter DocTon from the front-door of tlvird house. 

Doc. Ah, janitress— Miss Apgar — a word with 
you. 

Jan. At your service, doctor Killem. 

Doc. This new tenant for the vacant house, 
Mr. — what is his name? 

Jan. Mr. Staker. 

Doc. Ah yes, Staker — Now who ever heard of 
him or his ancestors, being famous in any way — or 
even of ever staking anybody. 

Jan. (laughing) . I don't know, sir. 

Doc. Of course not — but you do know that all 
of us tenants on this block, are noted or great in 
one way or another. 

Jan. That's what everybody says. 

Doc. And this man, whose name is not even 
mentioned in "Who's Who," or any similar book 
dtomestic or foreign, seeks to inject his common 
self and family, amongst such august company: — 
what do you think of it? 

Jan. Pretty nervy. 

Doc. "Nervy" is a pat word; but I as a aoctor 
find it inapplicable here— for it implies good health, 
while such idiotic presumption as his, is symptom- 
atic of nervous prostration. 

Jan. Ha, ha, ha! 

Doc. All the tenants, at my suggestion, are going 
to hold a meeting on the lawn here, at once, to de- 
cide upon the form of a letter of protest to the land- 
lord against their admission. 

Jan. Are you indeed. 

Doc. When are they expected ? 

Jan. They are due now. 

Doc. What, so soon — I thought not till to- 
morrow the first. Well, don't dare admit them. 

Jan. How can I help it sir? 

Doc. Why, send them about their business — or 
better still, hold them here on the lawn, and see to 
it that they overhear our meeting ; the harsh things 
said of them there, will probably make them con- 
clude to give up the house. 

Jan. Oh, to do that would grate on my fine feel- 
ings. 

Doc. Bosh, grate on nutmegs — you must do it. 

Jan. Very well then, I will — But ah, doctor, my 



heart is going back stronger than ever to the old 
palmy days, when I was a young lady — 

Doc. That was in the long ago. 

Jan. No it wasn't ! I am still young yet — at least 
in spirit. — I lived in a palatial home, with loving 
parents; and all that heart could wish. I was the 
belle of the place ; I was courted, admired and flat- 
tered ; I was — 

Doc. Catch your breath, dear woman — no more 
of the / 2i'as's, as I am familiar with the whole story : 
you have told it to all the tenants too often: you 
have encouraged the propensity to make too much 
of it, until it has become a foible. 

Jan. a foible : you mean to say that I — confound 
it, I tliought that I knew what the word meant ; but 
like others, I intuitively use many words meaningly, 
without stopping to think that I have no definite idea 
of what they really dto mean. 

Doc. Ah here is where erudition comes m — A 
foible, dear lady, means just the same as, a frailty, 
or a failing, or a weakness, or an infirmity: they 
may be of either a moral, mental or physical charac- 
ter : and they are, of course, brought on by one's self. 

Jan. Then you have a foible too ; for the tenants 
all say that you so much like to talk about— nothing. 

Doc. The envious backbiters! I grant you, that 
I am discursive, exhaustive, even prolix: but that 
same love to dissect anything, has made me deeply 
conversant with the human body; and given to 
science my famous books on physiology and surgery. 

Jan. It was wrong of me to play telltale — and 
put you to the trouble of saying so much. 

Doc. So much — why madam, I just began speak- 
ing: I will continue by saying — 

Jan. Ah, here come Mr. Staker and family. 
Doc. Then, join them — and mind that you bring 
them near the meeting; which we tenants will soon 
be out to hold. {Exit into house). 

Enter Mr. Staker, and his family, left. They 
wear headgear; but all others in the scene are bare- 
headed, except Policeman and Soldier, zuho wear 
their caps. 

Stak. Ah, Miss Apgar — good early-morning! 
We are come; and our furniture will be here later. 

Jan. That is very good Mr. Staker. 

Stak. My family, you met before ; but another 
introduction will make you still better acquainted: 
This is my wife, Abagail ; and these my children, 
Edward 25 years, Harold 19, Gertrude 22 and Hazel 
17. 

Jan. (after they have exchanged bows). I am 
pleased to meet you all again. 

Ger. Oh, at last we are going to live and associ- 
ate with the great ! Mother, you know how I have 
always longed for that. 

Mrs. Stak. Yes, my dear child : and, as I have 
often said, all those noble and very lofty feelings in 
you are inherited — You see, Mrs. Apgar, I am a 
lineal descendant of Robert Bruce, King of Scot- 
land ; my maiden name being Abagail Bruce. I can 



FOIBLES 



trace back to my great great grandfather, who hved 
in Scotland about the year 1800, and Robert Bruce 
reigned about the year 1300 : so you see that for the 
time between 1300 and 1800, or five hundred years, 
we have no record of— but I and the many others, 
that pride ourselves on our descent, are so sure of 
our premises that we do not care a fig about a small 
skip in the tracing like 500 years. 
(Mrs. Apgar is pcrlexcd, but nods Inr approval). 
Edvv. I hope, mother, that you and Gertrude, will 
be satisfied now : for, living with the great, has been 
the constant burden of your prayers: or, I should 
have said — of your moans. 

Stak. Indeed, that is true, Edward : — Exquisite 
manners, (which I hope I possess,) would not allow 
me to get ruffled either in iteportment or speech, but 
it taxed me severely ; and wlien I made my overnight 
fortune, their clamors redoubling, 1 rushed to a real 
estate office as fast as my legs could carry me, with 
the idea of trying to attain their wishes, and thus end 
the annoyance : fortunately he knew of this house : — 
yes, I hope they will be content. 

Mrs. Stak. Well dear, perhaps you and Edward 
had better dwell a little less on Gertrude's and my 
foibles, and a little more on your own : yours is, 
dear, to show ofif the exquisite manners that you 
believe you possess, Edward's is, to show off the 
physical strength that he believes he possesses. 

Edw. That he believes, eh ? (Striking an attitude) 
Well, I know that I possess it. Glorious it is, and 
not a foible : besides young people can't have such 
things ; they don't call them that. 

Haz. Yes they do— youthful failings, but still 
foibles. 

Har. Ha, ha. Hazel, your foible is your child- 
like love for candy and ice cream. (General smiles) 
Stak. And yours Harold, is the firm belief, 
quite common among youths, that you know it all. 

Har. (hotly). Oh, is it. Well you, in your inter- 
course with anybody, even a street sweeper, put on 
the same ridiculous and hifalutin carriage and ad- 
dress, as courtiers do when talking to a king. 

Haz. Shame on you Harold, to speak to papa 
so. — Come, let us go in. 

Jan. Oh not yet, I pray you. 
Mrs. Stak. Why not ; are not all things in readi- 
ness ? 

Jan. — Yes, but — but the doctor just told me 
that the tenants were going to meet out here, at 
once, to transact some business ; and perhaps you 
would like to get a glimpse of them. 
Mrs. Stak. Oh, what luck : of course we would. 
GeR. I am just dying to even see them! and it 
might take days, ordinarily. 

Stak. Wouldn't it be well to get in a less con- 
spicuous spot. 

Jan. I am going to take you in the shadow of 
those bushes. (She takes them to front zcing, on 
right.) 

Har. (producing; a baseball.) Come Ed, let us 
get biisy. 



Edw. Just the place for a toss. 

(They toss a bit on stage, finally zvorking off). 

Ger. The agent told papa, that the famous occu- 
pants of the block, were a soldier, poet, artist, min- 
ister, senator, doctor, ambassador, and philanthro- 
pist. 

Jan. That's right. 

Ger. Oh what a galaxy I Please tell us in which 
house each one lives. 

Jan. (pointing to the house-fronts). Well, there 
is your house you know, and on either side of you 
is the minister and doctor. (Pointing to imaginary 
house-fronts presumed to adjoin the others on the 
right). Next to the minister is the soldier, then the 
senator, then the poet. (Pointing to imaginary house- 
fronts presumed to adjoin the others on the left). 
Next to the doctor is the philanthropist, then the 
ambassador, then the artist. 

Ger. Now, please, what are they like? 

Jan. Why, they are very much like other people; 
and in some respects, less interesting. You will be 
disappointed in them. 

Ger. Oh, that is impossible! 

Stak. Why Gertrude, the lady knows what she 
is talking about. 

Jan. Like most people, each of them has one or 
more foibles. 

Ger. What is their nature ? 

Jan. Well, it is not exactly easy to describe them : 
but you will soon know them, for they will excite 
your laughter. 

Mrs. Stak. You don't say. 

Ger. It would be rude to laugh : but of course I 
can't help it, if they act very funny. 

Haz. My, how delightful, to have something 
amusing. 

Ger. Well mother, this certainly is a setback, 
in our ideas of the great ; but maybe they will more 
than come up to our expectations, in some respects. 

Mrs. Stak. Yes, in the main they must be like 
our dreams. I dare not think otherwise. 

Haz. Ah, some one comes out: Who is it? 

Enter Minister from the front-door of first 
house ; he goes off left. 

Jan. That is the minister — and in his black sur- 
plice: — his liking to wear that is a regular foible. 

Ger. You don't say. — What is his name? 

Jan. Mr. Postem. 

Mrs. Stak. Postem — what an extraordinary 
name: (particularly for a minister) : a far different 
name from that of 'Bruce ;' or other equally high- 
sounding ones of noted men. 

Haz. It has the aroma of the famous substitute 
for coiifee — or brings visions of the billposter and 
signboard. (General laughter.) 

Jan. Well, it is odd: and yet appropriate; for 
he has to acquaint people with matters of religion 
and brotherly love : that is, he has to post 'em. 

Stak. Ha, ha, that's good— a contraction of post 
them. 



FOIBLES 



Jan. He has gone to hold an open-air revival 
meeting, at that end of ihe lawn: he holds them 
twice a week, at about this hour. \\'hen ic is over 
he will come back to attend the meeiing that the 
doctor spoke about. 

Ger. There comes a man in uniform out. 

Enter Soldier, right; he goes off left. 

Jan. That is the soldier — Mr Knoblock. His 
liking to wear the uniform, is a regular foible, 
also. 

Haz. Is he going to the pastor's meetmg.'' 

Jan. Yes, he actends them all : in order, he 
says, to have the uniform's giory confound the sur- 
plice's solemnity : — he advocates war, you see, 
and the minister preaches peace : and it has made 
bitter enemies of them. 

Mrs Stak. & Ger. Is it possible. 

Stak. ^"Vnother one, has come out. 

Enter Philanthropist, left; he stops by doctor's 
stoop. 

Jan. Yes, the celebrated philanthropist— Mr 
Pull wool. 

Haz. Mr. Pullwool. {Laughing) Oh what 
a funny name. 

Stak. Yes, — it recalls at once the ludicrous 
phrase, that is often used to express deception and 
cheating— /'((//ze'co/ over the eyes. 

Jan. It does; and is much applied that way: 
as many people say that Pullwool is pulling the 
wool over the eyes of the public, in the immense 
sums that he begs from them, for much of it goes 
into the capacious pockets of himself and his con- 
federates. 

Mrs. Stak. He begs, — for what? 

Jan. He is President of the "Home and Foreign 
Money-aid and Moral-uplift Society." 

Stak. He is a fine-looking and a sanctimonious 
looking man. 

Ger- Yes, indeed, — but quite old: (sadly) that 
however seems to be the case with most ot the 
great. 

Mrs. Stak. With you, like most young people, 
your own age, seems the golden age. — ^but, my child. 
it takes years to develop greatness. 

Ger. (downcast.) I presume it does: (hopefully) 
but in the children of the great, of about my age, 
we may hope, at least, to see wonderful precocity. 

Stak. (laughing.) Yes; ofttimes so precocious, 
that they deem themselves greater than their parents. 

Jan. There comes the Doctor out. 

Re-enter Doctor from the front door of third 
house; he stops by his stoop, with Philanthropist. 

Haz. What, that man is a doctor,— short, fat 
and baldheaded- 

Ger. (mock despair.) Oh, how different from 
what he ought to be! So are they all, so far, 
in one respect or another. 

Mrs. Stak. (authoritatively.) None of them, are 
extraordinary enough. 



Stak. (jocularly-) Well, we will have them all 
made over to suit Gertrude and yourself. 

Re-enter Edward and Harold, left. 

Mrs. Stak. Did you have a good ball-play, boys? 

Har. Yes, mother, we tos-^ed until we got tired. 

Edw. You should have said that you did: (boast- 
fully) I never get tired. 

Har. (boyish conceit.) Well, I know all about 
the game. 

Jan. The poet, is coming out. 

Ger. Ah, anyone that writes poetry, must possess 
personal graces, — he is divinely tall. 

Enter Poet, right; he joins those by stoop. 

Edw- And most divinely lean. 

Ger. (to Jan.) What is his name? I know that 
it must be an euphonious one. 

Jan. Mr. Bacon. 

Ger. Bacon ? That name seems familiar ; seems 
suggestive. 

Har. Yes, it suggests bacon and eggs. 

Edw. Or, liver and bacon. 

Ger. Horrid ! I do believe that is what I had 
in mind. 

Stak. Or. bringing home the bacon. 

Haz. Oh papa, shame on you. 

Mrs- Stak. How oddly he dresses, — that is seen, 
now, that he is facing this way — just like a laborer. 

Jan. Yes,— and he also makes them largely the 
theme of the 2'erse libre that he grinds orjt ;— he is 
too select to have any real affinity with the toilers, 
so I guess it must be a matter of dollars and cents. 

Har. (as a loud c.r plosion is heard.) Oh my! 
What is that? 

Jan. Only another foible,— the Ambassador's, 
now coming out: he was, (well, to jpeak it genteelly,) 
clearing his proboscis, in his own peculiar manner. 

Haz. Clearing his proboscis, — what in the world 
is that? 

Stak. Why, blowing his nose. 

Edw. Well, his is certainly some bugle. 
Enter Ambassador, left; he joins those by 
stoop. 

Ger. Oh what a gorgeous dress he wears. 

Jan. That is an ambassadorial uniform: he has 
many different kinds. 

Mrs. Stak. Has he, indeed. 

Jan. Strange to say, the Senator has a foible, 
that is much like this nose-blowing one of the ambas- 
sador: whenever he gets bored, he is apt to gape 
and yawn, loudly and weirdly. 

Mrs. Stak. & Ger. (despairingly.) Worse and 
worse. 

St.\k. These particular kinds of foibles, are of 
the nature of infirmities — from the fact that they 
are manifested in a physical way. They are, in one 
form or another, quite common with humanity. 

Jan. Now you have seen all, but the senator — 
Mr. Law ; and the artist — Mr.Dauber. — Ah. here 
they come walking along the sidewalk together— 
they have been taking an after-breakfast walk. 



FOIBLES 



Har. Please don't say which is which— I will 
wager you a necl<tie, Edward, that I can pick them 
apart. 

Edw. It looks soft for ycu : bur one never can tell 
— so I will have to take you. 

Har. It is a shame to take your mone}- ; it is like 
taking cake from a child : for one's name is law — 
and that name at once arouses visions of jurispru- 
dence, in all its majesty and breadth : and you as well 
as I have concluded that its possessor is not the 
small insignificant looking man with the retreating 
forehead and bald head, but the stately younger 
man with the high broad brow and finely chiselled 
face. 

Edw. It is a foolish bet, Harold ; for th^t is 
what I concluded. 

Enter on sidewalk, left, Senator, and Artist; 
holding their hats in hands : just inside they are stop- 
ped by a Dutchman, following them. 

Dutch. (?o Artist). Vas this Mr. Kohlslaw ? 

Art. No — damn it— kchlslaw is cabbage. 

Dutch. You bet'yu; and I likes it! — Mine 
friend the grocer, said as I passed, ran and give 
this package to my customer there, who left it in 
my store— Mr. Kohlslaw. 

Art. Cowles Law — but not Kohlslaw. 

Dutch. How can it be Kohlslaw and not Kohl- 
slaw? 

Art. That seems paradoxical, doesn't it? 

Dutch. What's that? 

Art. Why, something that appears, contradictory. 

Dutch. What's THAT? 

Art. a thing that appears to be false on its face, 
until more light is thrown on it — The grocer gave 
you the full name — (spells it) C-o-w-l-e-s. first 
name; L-a-w, last name — so you see that Law is 
his name ; but his full name is Cowles Law. 

Dutch. Oh that is the way it vas, is it ? 

Art. This is the gentleman. 

Dutch. Oh vas it. (Hands package to Senator). 

Sen. Thank you. 

(Exit Dutchman, left; Senator and Artist 
join those by stoop.) 

Har. You win, Edward, and I lose. 

Edw. That's right — Mr. Law, is the insignificant 
looking man : it was a wrong conclusion. 

Stak. Preconceived ones generally are. 

Haz. Ha, ha, it was fun when the artist joked 
with the dutchman. 

Jan. He is fond of joking ; that is his foible : 
and he has another one, very common among men — 
the frequent use of cuss words- 

Ger. (gazing off). The revival seems to be over. 

Jan. Yes, and the soldier comes, headed right in 
our direction. 

Stak. Let us eet in the covert of these bushes 
till he passes. (They huddle together at front and 
partly in wing and overhear the Soldier and Min- 
ister's talk). 

Enter Soldier, left. 



Sol. Oh, this looking distinguished all the time 
is a terrible bore — a man has to pay a high price for 
fame : to keep up the reputation is harder than to 
gain it. People say, there goes the great soldier ; and 
to fully satisfy expectations, I have got to have the 
bearing of an ordinary soldier, (no easy task to 
compete with these strapping fellows), plus the idea 
of greatness. Oh, what a pleasure it is to get away 
from people, and unlimber myself and act naturally. 
— Ah, some persons (he assumes a dislinguished 
air) over there with the janitress are admiring me. 
(Struts off, right). 

Stak. Ha, ha, there we got a glimpse of the real 
feelings of a great soldier. (General laughter-) 

Jan. Here is the minister too : they always keep 
in each other's wake, and at times meet and have 
hot words together. 

Enter Minister, left. 

MiN. (glancing at those by stoop). I see that 
the tenants are gathered for the meeting, so I won't 
have time to follow^ the peacock soldier down the 
lawn, to offset his influence upon any sjjectators 
that may pass. I will go in and doff my surplice — 
I dislike doing it, for it gives me an imposing 
appearance. And said imposing appearance is due 
to it alone : for without it, I am forced to admit, 
against my vanity's denial, that in spite of my side- 
boards and other semi-artificial aids, I look almost, 
yes actually insignificant. And what chance has a 
commonplace, ordinary looking minister to-day? 
Why people are as sure that nothing worth while 
could come out of him, as peoole were sure i" the 
long ago, that nothing good could come out of Naza- 
reth. 

Re-enter Soldier, right. 

Sol. How dare you sir to appear outside of the 
Church in your black-surplice? 

Min. How dare you sir to appear outside of 
the ranks in your gaudy-uniform? 

Sol. My practice is in accordance with military 
regulations. 

Min. My practice is in accordance with Church 
regulations. 

Sol. You only wear yours sir to show ofif. 

Min. You only wear yours sir to show off. 

Sol. Your calling is inimical to mine : you would 
take away my bread and butter. 

Min. Your calling is inimical to mine : you would 
take away my bread and butter. 

Doc. (coming forward from stoop followed by 
the others.) What a racket, what a noise, what a 
fuss, what a combustion! Must you be always 
quarreling with each other ; can't you ever be at 
peace ? 

MiN. Please leave us alone sir. 

Sol. How dare you interfere. 

Phil. Why, to acquaint you with what he just 
told us: (lozifering voice) there are the Stakers. the 
subject of our present gathering ; they are being held 
by the janitress at the doctor's request, so as to 



FOIBLES 



overhear our action, (raw^j voice again) and should 
the vote go against them probably voluntarily with- 
draw. 

MiN. That's a good afterthought, dear Fullwool : 
let's proceed with the business. 

Poet. The Senator is the natural chainnan. 
(Senator being bored, yawns lotidly and weirdly.) 
Doc. What, yawning again, Senator Law ? You 
are easily bored : you yawn, in your inimitable way, 
at the idea of a prospective personal exertion — who 
could conceive that you are one of those that kill 
bills in the senate, by talking against time- 

Sen. Who could conceive, Dr. Killem, that you 
could keep quiet long enough to treat a patient. 

Amb. (after laughter). Order— now for the 
question ! 

Sen. Gentlemen, are you, or not, in favor of 
sending the landlord a letter, protesting in vigorous 
language against Mr. Staker's becoming a tenant 
here ? All in favor, say so. 
All. Yes, yes. 

Sen. All opposed, say so. No answer : the ques- 
tion is carried unanimously. 

Poet. Staker,— what a peculiarly offensive name : 
it suggests the idea that if this man were not poor, 
he would offer to stake all of us, if we allowed him 
to live here — of course without success. 

Min. The name fits the maji : for I understand 
that he of course is not refined. 
Sol. And has execrable manners. 
Stak. (to his family.) 'Execrable manners'— 
I can't stand that! (He advances, followed by fam- 
ily and jamfress) . My name is Staker— Gentlemen. 
All. Oh, indeed. 
Stak. I came, to— 

Doc. My name is Killem. sir: I am a doctor. 
Stak. Are you?— I hope sir that your name is 
not indicative of the treatment your patients receive. 
Doc. Well, envious fellow practitioners say that 
I do kill-em:— but what is the sense of keeping 
hopeless cases lingering, when the patients are too 
poor to pay my bills for the nostrums administered. 
Stak. Ha, ha. that's true. 
Doc. Aristotle, aptly says, that — 
Art. Oh, cut it out ! When you first butted in. 
Mr. Staker had begun to say something. 

Stak. (growing stern again). I started to say 
this. I come, to resent the remarks you made about 
me ; which I could not help overhearing : all of them 
were unkind; but the soldier's was also a li (Sol- 
dier shozi's fight) bel. (Soldier calms dozvn.) Live 
amongst you — nothing whatever could induce me 
to do so. 

Mrs. Stak. 1 am not so anxious to live here now : 
(spiritedly) but we'll come just the same. 
Ger. Yes indeed, — this is a free country. 
Stak. (firmly-) And I say that we shall not 
come. 

Doc. Thanks! Mr. Staker. We all regret the 
wounding of your feelings: and personally let me 
add, in the same words that I use to a patient 



after an operation— I beg your pardon for havmg 
cut you up so. {Everybody smiles) 

Edw. (aside). The doctor is a funny guy, Har- 
old, isn't he ? 

Har. (aside). He is all to the merry. 
Art. And personally let me add, that seeking to 
come here was damsied presumptuous — and really 
calls for an apology. 

Stak. Which I won't make— but I will, explain. 
It was due solely to my wife and elder daughter's 
almost insane longing to live amongst the great: 
(but which has been impaired, as my wife inti- 
mated, by what we have seen and heard here this 
morning) : it made my life unendurable; so that I 
eagerly" sought to end it by gratifying them, when I 
jumped from poverty to affluence overnight— by 
making a fortune in Wall Street. 

All. (amazed). You made a fortune! 
Stak. Yes. 
All. How much ? 

Stak. Something over a million dollars. 
All. (excitedly). So much! — (Shaking his 
hands). Mr. Staker, we beg you to become our 
neighbor ! 

Stak. What? Does the money make such a 

difference. 

j3)uf. -Vj'es- vou have wealth ; and if it so please 
you, can make gifts to us in return for our conde- 
scension.s— that makes all the difference in the world. 

Stak. Would you all barter away your favors? 

All. Well we hate to do it— but we need the 
money. 

Stak. I shall not come. 

All. You shall ! 

Stak. It would be infamous to do so, in view of 
the scurrilous things said about me. 

Poet. I said that your name was significant : but 
after having met you, I feel sure that were we to 
accept from you ever so much, you would stand in 
the proud position of a benefactor— not a staker: 
and I now recall that your name is applied to anyone 
that stakes things off ; therefore your ancestors were 
no doubt renowned surveyors. 

Stak. (flattered.) Ah! 

Min. And I said that I understood you were not 
refined ; but was falsely informed, for you are the 
quintessence of refinement. 
Stak. Ah ! Ah ! 

Sol. And I was falsely informed also, for your 
manners are not execrable but elegant, and will be a 
distinct and rare acquisition to our select circle. 
Stak. Ah! Ah! Ah! ^ , > 

.All. You will come ; won't vou Mr. Staker ? 
Stak. Gentlemen, how can I resist you— yes, yes. 
\LL Thanks kind sir— and a warm welcome, to 
you. Mrs Staker-and to you, children ! (They shake 

hands). . „ r i 

Mrs Stak. I thank you sirs, for all ot us! 
Min Now, go in your house; for you all need 

rest. In a short time we will all be well acquainted 

individually ; and the best of friends. 



10 



FOIBLES 



Poet, (as Stakers leave). And in a month or 
so, we will unite in tendering you a reception and 
banquet. 

Stakers. You are very kind ! 

Ger. (aside). Oh mother, they begin to be after 
all a little more like our first expectations. 

Mrs. Stak. Yes — and my bitter disappomtment 
is very much assuaged. (Exeunt Stakers and Jax- 
iTRESs into front-door of second house) 



Phil. ( to Poet. ) Are you crazy, man ? give (hem 
a reception and banquet ; you know that we will all 
be as fxxir as Job's turkey, until after my next great 
drive for donations to the Society. 

All. Why, we take it that he was only bluffing. 

Poet. That's what I was — but with a purpose ; 
for once get the idea of a reception into Staker's 
cranium, it will be easy to get him to give it, instead 
of us. 

All. Ha, ha, ha! (Exeunt into their houses). 



ACT II 



Scene 1 — Mr. Staker's Private Office, in his home 
on the same block. A handsomely cosy room; 
usual furnishings. A door at rear, (open). 

(Discovered.) Staker and his Wife. 

Stak. Abagail, we have now been living here 
with the great for three months, and the results 
show all loss and no profit. 

Mrs. Stak. How so? 

Stak. Well, we are constantly being brow- 
beaten and snubbed by the women ; and by the men 
too, except when they want me to stake them with 
money— which is very often: I call it staking, tor if 
they do get it as a loan, it will never be returned. 
Then we have to put up with both the women and 
men's foibles: which to be sure, are ludicrously 
amusing; yet too possess some very disagreeable 
features. 

Mrs. Stak. When the janitress told us that they 
had foibles, I looked the word up in the dic- 
tionary: it means the same as, a weakness, or a 
failing, or a frailty, or an infirmity— and they habit- 
ually say many things, do many things, or wear 
many things, that plainly come under this definition. 
As you know, many of these they even tax each other 
with openly. 

Stak. Why. such taxing of each other, whether 
to the face or behind the back, seems to be one of 
their main delights : they no sooner come together 
than the fun begins. 

Mrs. Stak. And, at times, even the members 
of the family, get back at each other. 

Stak. However, to be fair, we must recognize 
that most people possess foibles : and that they like 
to make those of others, a favorite topic for social 
chatter. Even children have them, — one of whose 
is their abnormal appetite for bread and butter : we 
have them too. 

Mrs. Stak. Others see ours, we see others'— but 
nobody see their own. — Ah, I begin to love 
this f rench-derived word — foibles : that so aptly de- 
notes the infinite variety of eccentricities and pe- 
culiarities that human beings are subject to. 

Stak. Then it is evident that Gertrude and the 
philanthropist's son, and Edward and the poet's 
daughter, have become greatly attached to each 



other: and there is no telling the outcome; for it is 
certain that nothing, not even money, would induce 
their parents to allow them to wed outside ot their 
own circle of greatness. 

Mrs. Stak. Yes — these lovers' probable trials, 
worry me too ; and the other ills you have not exag- 
gerated : but (here is profit too. 

Stak. What is it ? 

Mrs. Stak. Why. Gertrude's and my pet zchim 
of living wi(h the great has been gratified ; (not 
without alloy, I must admit:) besides, society views 
us as occupying a proud place — and you forget 
the reception tendered to us last month. 

Stak. Yes — ^but which was held in our house 
instead of theirs, by their suggestion, and therefore 
all the bills were sent to me, and I had to pay them. 

Mrs. Stak. Ha, ha, you were imposed upon : but 
you must take comfort in the reflection that money 
impositions are the least of all. 

Enter Pluto (a negro,) zdth a letter in hand. 
rear. 

Plu. (handing letter.) A messenger, sah. am 
waitin' outside for the answer. 

Stak. (opening, reads aloud.) "Dear ]\Ir. & Mrs. 
Staker : We tenants just met at the doctor's house, 
in relation to my society's next drive for funds; and 
at once unanimously decided to adjourn, to meet — 
if entirely agreeable — in about an hour at your 
house. Please send a verbal reply. Yours very 
truly — Pull wool." 

Mrs. Stak. Pluto, tell the messenger that the 
answer is — Mr.&Mrs. Staker will be delighted. 

Stak. Of course. 

Plu. All right. (Exit rear.) 

Mrs. Stak. As it is the males, they will ask to 
see you alone: they always do— let them meet m the 
parlor: and when they have met— ring: and I will 
send up some delicacies. Tell them, when thev are 
at leisure, we will be glad to see them : Edward and 
Gertrude will soon be home, and Harold and Hazel 
are now. 

Stak. Very well. 

Enter Jane, rear. 

Mbs. Stak. Ah Jane, what do you want ? 

Jane. I come for my wages, ma'm. 



FOIBLES 



11 



Mrs. Stak. But the servants' quarters, is the 
proper place to go to. 

Jane. I was there, and they said you were here 
in the master's private oftice ; so I came here. 

Mrs. Stak. Don't you think it was pretty nervy ? 
Jane. Perfectly proper, ma'm, under the ad- 
vanced democracy. 

Stak. Why are you leaving us? 
Jane. The mistress falsely accused me of steal- 
ing, so I threw up the job. 

Mrs. Stak. I caught you leaving the house 
with a five pound bag of sugar : do you deny the 
allegation ? 

Jane. No— but I despise the alligator: you 
may call it by a harsh name; but no servant to-day 
would be thought much of that didn't do such 
things, and what's right or what's wrong depends 
upon common practice, — stealing, indeed! 

Mrs. Stak. Well Jane, then le;'s call it a foible. 
Jane, {suspicwusiy) What's that you say? 
Mrs. Stak. Why something less than a fault— 
a weakness or failing. 

Jane. Now you are coming to your senses. 
Stak. Here is your pay, Jane. {Hands money, 
which Jane takes.) 

Jane. Thank you— and I hope that my successor 
will be as lenient with you as I have been: only 
five pounds of anything at a time, hum. {Exit 
rear.) 

Mrs. Stak. Hear that,— will you. I almost re- 
gret our change of fortune. 
Stak. Why ? 

Mrs. Stak. Blessed are the poor, for they 
can hire no help : they are enough to set one crazy. 
Stak. The servant problem is a hard nut to 
crack. 

Mrs. Stak. No one is perfect to be sure, but 
why should they be worse than others? 

Stak. They only seem so because their menial 
duties try them more. 

Mrs. Stak. Besides Jane, Fritz the cook, left 
yesterday, because I called him down for back-talk : 
his failing is a belief in social equaliiy; which he 
constantly harped upon, to the neglect of his dunes. 
Stak. Then we will have to advertise. 
Mrs. Stak. I did put an ad in the afternoon 
paper, telling them lo call at 5 to-night ; and we may 
soon expect some applica ions, as it is now a little 
past that hour : — I guess that I will go to the kitchen 
and see. {Exit rear.) 

Re-enter Pluto, ushering in Bridget and Rozzi. 
Plu. Two applicants, sah, in answer to the ad fur 
help. 

Stak. Why didn't you direct them around to 
the servants' entrance? 

Plu. I did sah, but they wouldn't go : they both 
'nsis ed on tein' received 'ike reg'lar guests are. 

Stak. Ah, no doubt they have caught the fever 
of advanced democracy. (Bridget anrf Rozzi nod 



affirmatively). All right Pluto, you may go. {He 
retires.) What is your pleasure, friends? 

Koz. I am'a an Italiani, therefore polite ; let'a the 
lady speak 'a first. 

bRiD. Ah, is it a lady yez call me? Sure yez are 
very kmd : at the hash -house they just call me Brid- 
get; with a cuss word prefix. Mr. Staker, I ap- 
ply for waitress : the ad calls for only sich as work 
for the great ; and sure I work for the grand duke 
of Kack-e-ack— (cit'de) H'iven forgive me for de- 
sate, but persons are forced to do a little bluffin' 
nowadays. 

Stak. {having reflected-) I don't recall ever 
having heard of that name. 

Brid. L'ave of jokin', sure iv'rybody has heard 
of him. 

Stak. Have they? Well perhaps I am behind 
the times. 

Roz. I apply for a cook'a: my nam'a is Rozzi; 
I used to work'a for Guflfanti. 

Stak. That name sounds familiar: and is he a 
great man also? 

Roz. So much'a so, that I can think 'a of noth- 
ing comparable to him'a hereabouts ; except greater 
—New York'a. 

Stak. {after smiling.) Why did you leave him? 
Roz. He said Rozzi, your tips ate too larg'a ; you 
mak'a more money than I do— and gav'a me the 
grand'a bounce. {Staker and Bridget laugh). 

Stak. Well, I do not hire the help ; my wife at- 
tends to that — excuse me a minute, and I will fetch 
her. {Exit rear) 

Roz. Bridget, if they engage you'a as waitress, 
and me'a as cook, we will'a be the best'a of friends 
Brid. Indade we will that, Mr Rozzi. 
Rcz. For our own'a eating, I will always hav'a 
on the menu. Iri-h s'ew'a, for you — 
Brid. Ah ! Ah ! 

Rcz. .-'■nd'a the macaroni, for myself. 
Brid. P'hat, them pipestems ! Signor, pl'ase tel. 
me w'-y vez Italians ate so much macaroni? 

Fez. Why— why just 'a to make'a the day go. 

Brid. Ah, g'wan— now it's blushin' I am— yez 

spalpeen, I didn't think yez would spake vulgar, hke 

many varmints do, about the sweets of the begetting 

of babies. ,, ■ x 

Roz. {expostulating.) No no — not {spells it) 
d-a-e-o, dago: but'a {spells it) d-a-y g-o. 

Brid. Ah. to have the time pass quickly and 
nately: I understand yez, now. 

{Ro2zi produces a snuffbox and takes a pinch) 

Brid. P'hat the divil are yez doin'? 

Roz. Onlv taking a pinch'a of snufif'a. 

Brid. Whv in the wurM do yez take that stuff? 

Roz. I "ak'a it to clear'a the nose ; so that'a I can 
smeH'a be'iter. 

Brid. Dasint people don't want to have very 
good smellers here in New York. 

{Bridget produces a bottle and takes a nip) 

Roz. What'a the devil are'a you doing? 



12 



FOIBLES 



Brid. Only taking a drop of the cray' thur. 

Roz. Why in'a the world do'a you tak'a that'a 
stuff? 

Brid. I take spirits down to kape my spirits up. 

Roz. Ha, ha. — But keeping up'a the spirits by 'a 
the aid oi boose is not'a so popular nor so lawful 
as it'a used to be. 

Brid. That's true ; we old topers are the only ones 
that kape it up — it is my only w'akness. 

Roz. Yes, the sam'a as taking the snuff'a is my 
only failing. {Takes another pinch.) Ah, fin'a — ! 
Here tak'a a pinch yourself. 

Brid. Not on yure life. {Takes another nip.) 
Ah, fin'a! — Here take a nip yourself. 

Roz. Not on 'a your life. 

Brid. B'jaabers, it's at odds we are ; let's come to 
a'vens. I will take a pinch if yez will take a nip. 

Roz. That'a isi fair — all right'a. 

{She takes a pinch and he takes a nip) 

Brid. {sneezing.) Fa'th, it's a very pl'asing sen- 
sation, afther all ! 

Roz. {smacking his lips.) Fa'th, it is not'a near 
so bad, as'a I thought ! 

Brid. B'gorra, 1 will take another pinch. 

Roz. You need'a no coaxing now. — B'gorra, I 
will tak'a another nip. 

Brid. Yez nade no coaxin' now. — Kape the stuff 
for the prisint, and I will kape the snuff ; and we will 
repate the expiriment now and then. 

Roz. Yes'a, now and then; but'a mostly— now. 

Brid. {aside.) I like the snuff, but have had 
e'nuff; still I am wiUin' to kape on for the pl'asure 
of seeing the dago get drunk. {Slie takes another 
pinch, and Rossi takes another nip : then she has a 
fit of sneezing, and he sings in a maudlin manner; 
aitnng which Mr and Mrs Staker re-enter) 

Stak. Why what is the matter here ; what has 
caused this remarkable transformation? 

Brid. 'Why Mr. Rozzi politely asked me to jine 
him in takin' a pinch of snuff', and I returned the 
complimint by askin' him to jine me in takin' a wee 
bit of the cray'thur : he liked the liquor, and the snuff 
was not displ'asing to me, so we rep'ated the dose too 
often. 

Mrs. Stak. Do you think it at all decorous to 
come here and act in this manner ? 

Brid. Why, I can't see any har-m in it mu'm. 

Stak. Well, I presume you will, with regret, 
have to decline Miss Bridget and Mr. Rozzi's ser- 
vices ! 

Mrs. Stak. No, I am going to hire them : ser- 
vants are all the same ; they all have failings ; and 
while these foibles differ, one is bad as another : — 
Bridget will you do me the honor to become wait- 
ress? 

Brid. Yis mu'm. 

Mrs. Stak. Mr. Rozzi, will you do me the honor 
to become cook ? 

Roz. Yes, madam. 



Mrs. Stak. Come then with me down to the 
kitchen. {Exeunt Mrs. Stak, Bridget, and Roszi, 
rear. ) 

Stak. To live here is intolerable; I can't en- 
dure the tenants and servants' indignities and im- 
positions: but there's no getting Abagail and Gert- 
rude away ; for they will submit to anything to live 
with the great : so we are stuck here, I reckon ; un- 
less I meet with reverse and can't pay the bills :— ha, 
to get away by the loss of fortune ; that's worth pon- 
dering over. {Sits dojvn and ponders, as the cur- 
tain drops.) 



Scene H. — A reception Room, in Mr. Staker's 
home. Rich in style; with usual furnishings; in 
keeping. A door at right ; a door at left; and a 
casement, {open) at rear. 

{Discovered) Hazel. 

Haz. {impatiently.) Oh why don't Noel come 
back ? I told him that I would wait here in the recep- 
tion room. 

Mrs. Stak. {looking in door at left.) Hazel, 
I just hired a cook, (Mr. Rozzi) ; and a waitress, 
(Miss Bridget). 

Haz. That's good, mama. — Where's papa? 

Mrs. Stak. In his private office — see? 

Haz. {looking out door at left.) Oh, yes. 

{Mrs. Staker retires; Hazel closes door again.) 

Enter Noel, with two small boxes in his extended 
band, right. 

Noel. Here is what I promised you Hazel. 

Haz. {tearing box open.) Oh, why did you speak 
of bringing in this ice cream and candy ! 

Noel, {surprised.) Why, isn't it your weak- 
ness ; a perfect foible with you — like it is with many 
young maids — and don't I often gratify you? 

Haz. But, you kept me waiting. 

Noel. I have only been gone about five minutes. 

Haz. It seems like five hours. 

Noel. And, I told you I might not be able to 
return until our hour for visitors was over. 

Haz. Oh, now I realize that I could never have 
waited SO long. 

Noel. I'm sorry, but I was lucky to get back 
so soon : arriving home I donned this livery, and a 
false mustache, and was ready to serve as menial 
front-door bell-boy, as usual : a caller came soon, 
and I ushered him into father's presence : he is a 
tireless gabbler, whom I knew woiild hold out long; 
so, I took a chance, ran out, got the sweets, and here 
I am. 

Haz. {hamng opened bo.res is nozv gulping down 
alternately the stceets.) Well, it is very good of you. 
{Smacks lips) Oh my! 

Noel, {sadly.) I wish that you liked me as well 
as you do ice cream and candy. 

Haz. Don't be foolish, Noel : you, and other 
beaux and husbands are not adapted to be eaten. 



FOIBLES 



13 



Noel, (lugubriously.) Tliat's true— unless people 
were to turn cannibals. 

Haz. (laughing.) In that case you would soon 
be devoured ; for you look sweet in that livery. 

Noel, (tickled.) Do I! well that is some com- 
pensation for having to wear it. 
Haz. Don't you like to do so? 
Noel. It is not the suit ; but the dislike of play- 
ing front-door tender for an hour twice a week: 
and all because dad is too snobbish to do without 
what he can't afford to hire. 

Haz. Can't afford ? why he has a large salary as a 
United States senator. 

Noel. Yes— but he is always heavily in debt, 
on account of the high rent and other extravagances ; 
just the same as the other tenants on the block ; who 
also have, each in his own line, large incomes. 
Haz. Do you want to be a senator too? 
Noel. No— my failing, my craze, is to be an 
orator. 

Haz. Well, the senate is a good place for that 
Noel. I mean a lecturer, a public speaker. 
Haz. It is pretty hard to learn isn't it ? 
Noel. Father says that all there is to it, is to 
be able to say what I want to say, boldly and clearly. 
Haz. That's a grand idea of the way to go about 
it—Oh Noel you will yet be able to sway the crowd, 
with your impassioned words! (Takes his hands.) 
Let me help you : let me be a sort of a tutor :— What 
do you want to say now ? 

Noel, (looking into her eyes.) Well just now 
my thoughts have changed. I want to say, that — 
(hesitates and gets depressed) Oh pshaw, I wanted 
to tell you often before, and couldn't ; I want to tell 
you now, and can't ! (Despairingly-) O, how the 
deuce can I ever become an orator when I can't say 
what I want to say. 

Haz. Keep up hope ; you will yet : it takes pa- 
tience and perseverance :— Come, try again; what 
was it? 

Noel, (sheepishly.) I don't like to tell. 
Haz. That's the point— there's hesitation —you 
must overcome that— come speak out boldly, say 
what you want to say. 
Noel. Well then, here goes. Hazel, I love you! 
Haz. (blushes.) Is that just it? 
Noel. Yes, exactly. 
Haz. Then you have taken the first step to be 

an orator. 

Noel. Hurrah! but— 

Haz. But what? 

Noel. I didn't say it the way I wanted to. I 
spoke it like a calf ; and it had no more effect on you 
than water does on a duck's back. 

Haz. Ha, ha! Well, cheer up; eventually you 
will be able to say what you want to, and say it in 
the way you want to. 

Noel. Will you help me? 

Haz. Yes ; provided — 
Noel. Provided what ? 



Haz. That you make something else besides my- 
self the subject of your remarks. 
Noel. Why Hazel, don't you want to make love? 
Haz. Yes,— but we've got to go slow; we're 
young yet. 

Noel, (proudly.) Wliy I am nineteen; and 
you are only two years younger. 

Haz. Still, our spooning will have to continue a 
couple of years. 

Noel. Well, that is the next best thing to wed- 
lock! 

Haz. In the meantime you may get your fill of 

oratory, and be undivided in your allegiance to rne. 

Noel. Yes, — and you may get your fill of ice 

cream and candy, and be true alone to me. (Hazel 

laughs; stopping on hearing a weird noise.) 

Haz. What's that? 

Noel. Egad, that's father! nobody else gapes 
at being bored, like that: (looking off right) the 
Gabbler and Auntie are along :— you had best leave ; 
for he will be still angrier to see us together. 
Haz. Yes, he's awful stuck-up. (Exit left.) 
Noel, (putting on a false mustache.) father 
wouldn't want the gabbler to recognize me. (Falls 
flat on sofa.) Maybe I can remain here unseen un- 
til they leave. 

Enter Senator (Mr. Law), his Sister Miss Law, 
— and the Gabbler, right. 

Gab. Senator Law, this Staker must be an easy 
mark ? 

Law. Well I must confess that he is— but then we 
tenants expect to repay his loans. 
Gab. You expect to — but will you? 
Law. Oh, forget it. 

Gab. Do you think he will grant this farther 
accommodation ? 

Uww I do — and sister, you must speak a helpful 
word. I'll 

Miss L.^w. That's what I came along for. 
(Aside) But I came more because I hoped to see 
my dear bachelor doctor ; who often comes in here. 
Law. Since it is your importimity for the $500. 
that I owe you that forces me to tackle him, do not 
butt in when I raise the amount. 

Gab. Mum, is the word : all I care for, is to get 

mine. 

Law. I am going to ask for $2000. — the $1500 

over, I need myself. 

Gab. Agreed: but what do you do with all of 

your money? 

Miss Law. Why it takes a lot of money to live 
in the style that we have to do— What do you think 
this dress cost me? 

Gab. (after inspection.) Not so awful much— 
the cost of the material only: for you made it 
yourself, if looks are any guage. 

Miss Law. Oh, how dare you— how ridiculous ! 
(Aside) He is on the truth, the lynx-eyed wretch. 

Gab. And that cost is reduced ; for the skirt only 
comes to your knees. 



14 



FOIBLES 



Miss Law. Oh you blunt fellow, you make me 
blush. 

Law. My pleadings to have her wear attire be- 
coming to a grown person are wasted. 

Miss Law. I dress this way because beaux hke it. 
Law. Beaux — at your age: nonsense. 
Miss Law. W'Jiy not ? You were along in years 
when you wed your dear lamented wife. 

Law. Yes, I was thirty five then, but you are 
forty eight now. 

Miss Law. {hotly.) You needn't advertise it. 

Gab. Almost fifty ; yet still taking pleasure in a 
wanton display of calves, and still obsessed with the 
delights of being courted and wed, — what should he 
said? Well for charity's sake, let's call it an old 
maid's foibles. 

Miss Law. (resentfully,) An old maid — listen to 
that! 

Law. Come now to Mr. Staker's office. 

Miss Law. I will remain here: (aside) perhaps 
the dear doctor will appear. 

(Law and Gab on way to exit left, see Noel.) 

Gab. Ah, here's a servant: (Noel rises.) why he 
looks like your son Noel. 

Law. (agitated-) Y-yes, he does, somewhat: 
but Noel has no mustache ; it is my bell-boy. 

Gab. Ah yes, the one that let me in. 

Law. Exactly. 

Gab. What brings him here? 

Law. (to N oel zvith a wink .) You came in on an 
errand, I presume? 

Noel. Yes, sir. 

Gab. Now here's an excresence; no wonder }i'ou 
have to borrow — how much does he cost you ? 

Law. I ca' can't just say. 

Gab. You mean that you are afraid to say.— for 
it's a good round sum, isn't it? 

Law. Yes— heavy — very heavy. 

Gab. Why don't you lop it off? 

Law. What would the neighbors say ? 

Gab. Let them talk: that is better than being a 
snob. 

Law. Now is Ihat bad term applicable? 

Gab. Because to keep up appearances that one 
can't afiford, is a phase of snobbery. 

Law. That sounds logical. 

Gab. Your neighbors, no doubt are as bad. in this 
respect, as yourself ? 

Law. Even worse. 

Gab. Then defy them : become economical : live 
within your means, and buy war saving stamps. 

Law. Ah, War Saving Stamps ! First issued 
during the World War of 1914-18. Born, ont of the 
exigencies of that great struggle : and now. some 
years after the struggle's end, still surviving — as 
its aftermath. 

Gab. Well, what say you? 

Law. By jove, I will do it: and to begin with. I 
will let this rascal go, right here and now. 

Gab. That's the way to talk. 

Law. Consider yourself discharged, sir. 



Noel, (smiling.) Yes, sir. 

L-^w. \our wages due, you can get at any time, 
(qualifying) that I happen to have the money. 

Noel, ies, sir! (Noel bursts out in a grm, and 
mustache drops off) . 

Gab. Ha, a false mustache ! it is Noel, after all. 

Law. Yes, the cat is out of the bag. (Noel runs 
off right) 

Gab. And you were jollying me all the time. 

Law. Oh no,— I only tried — unworthily, I must 
confess — to get out of a hole. 

Gab. Oh what a tidbit for gossip ! the mighty sen- 
ator Law, too poor to have but too proud not to have 
a bell-boy, togs his only child in livery and false mus- 
tache and palms him ofT on the neighbors as a real 
article. 

Law. Ha, ha — yes, you are right — but I wouldn't 
have it known for the world : I beseech you, don't 
mention it around. 

Gab. Of course not. 

Law. Thank you. — (Law yawns loudly and 
weirdly) 

Gab. What, indulging in your physical foible, 
again. 

Law. Pardon me ; — I do it very rarely ; but per- 
sons like you, whose foible is 'to gabble,' bore one 
excessively. 

Gab. (stung.) Getting back at me. eh. (Exeunt 
Law and Gab, left) 

Miss Law. (having been an anxious on-lookcr 
some feet aivay.) That mean thing — that gabbler — 
will soon make it public property— Oh, it is, just too 
bad for anything ! 

Enter Doctor (Mr Killem,) right. 

KiL. Ah, Miss Law, you here ; this is a pleasure, 
indeed ! 

Miss Law. Which, is mutual, dear Doctor Killem, 
I assure you ! 

KiL. \\Tiat a joy for us to have a tete-a-tete. 

Miss Law. Yes, — sit down with me on the sofa. 
(They sit) 

KiL. I have urgent, very urgent business with 
Mr. Staker : which is, to give him the privilege of 
loaning me some money for a while. 

Miss Law. Ah, that IS a privilege. (Aside) I 
must keep brother's presence secret, until he gets his. 

KiL. Our chat will be short, (but I trust, sweet,) 
for I must get the bulge on the other tenants, who 
will soon be here for loans. 

Miss Law. (w'ith mock surprise.) Ha, Ha; do 
you think so? 

KiL. Yes, — you see, in a half hour the philanthro- 
pist and the rest of us, meet here to arrange for his 
coming big begging drive for funds. 

Miss. Law. Why are you meeting here, to arrange 
for the drive, instead of the doctor's house, as m for- 
mer ones? 

KiL. (smiling.) Solely because it afifords us an- 
other good chance to ask Staker for loans. 

Miss Law. (assuming astonishment.) Well I 



FOIBLES 



15 



declare — then you have all made a practice of asking 
him for money? 

KiL. Yes — and you must know that, to help mat- 
ters, sometimes you women folks are brought along 
to flatter him. 

Miss Law. (assuming amazement.) Is it possible! 

KiL. {groimng skeptical.) Why, your brother 
must have alluded to the subject — doubtless you are 
not so green in the matter as you appear. 

Miss Law. {squaring herself.) Well, come to 
think, he probably has. 

KiL. As each is anxious to get the first rap at 
him, they will no doubt be here shortly. 

Miss Law. (coyly.) Let us be sweet then at once. 
(Fondlv.) Are you happy now ? 

KiL." (sheepishly.) Yes, very! never was hap- 
pier, except on one occasion. 

Miss Law. When was that ? You make me jealous. 

KiL. There is no cause— it was in the long ago, 
when I performed my first surgical operation. — 

Miss Law. (interrupting.) Please bear in mind 
that this is no time to indulge in your foible of 
talkativeness. 

KiL. (smiling broadly, then continuing.) Sev- 
eral surgeons were in attendance ; all willing to give 
advice: too willing indeed, for they questioned my 
skill and experience: some, even wanted to take 
away my knife: but I persisted : and the result must 
^ave been a perfect cut; for they threw upon me 
contemptuous looks, that of course sprang from 

envy. 

Miss Law. (solicitously.) Take breath, doctor: 

then finish. 

KiL. The patient himself, who was no doubt so 
fond of quoting his little stock of latin, that he even 
welcomed the loss of a limb, that gave him a chance 
to do so, cried out— Doctor doctorum eruditissime! 

Miss Law. Ha, ha !— Now that the other occasion, 
has been amusingly described, let us return to this 
occasion. Doctor we have been intimate for some 
time? 

KiL. Yes indeed. 

Miss Law. Long enough for you to speak to me 
freely, what you have near at heart. 

KiL. That's true : and I should and will say, 
something— that I have often wanted to say but 

lacked the nerve. 

Miss Law. (aside.) Ah, a proposal at last ! (to 

- doctor shyly.) Well? 

KiL. I am going to propose- 
Miss Law. (interrupting) First let me put a query. 
KiL. Go ahead. 

Miss Law. One can have their last name, 
changed; can't they? 
■ Kjl. Yes, upon application to the legislature. 

Whv do you ask? 

Miss Law. Because I want you to have yours 

changed. 

KiL What! you surprise me— I don t want it 
changed ; it suito'me to a T : what fault do you f^nd 
with it ? 



Miss Law. Why, Killem — is a homocidal name. 
KiL. (indignantly.) Homocidal, is it? well if it 
is, it is not half so bad as your execrable habit of 
talking through your nose. 

Miss Law. (hotly.) Execrable, eh? Why, my 
speaking is melodious, and much admired: nobody 
ever dared before to hint to the contrar)'. 

KiL. Perhaps on account of delicacy : I fear that 
you delude yourself in regard to the meloay. 

Miss Law. Anyhow, you should take nature to 
task, not me. 

KiL. Don't put it on nature ; it is a foible. 
Miss Law. I have such a thing, I admit— that 
of wearing short skirts — but this is none, for how am 
I to blame? 

KiL. Let me tell you as a medical man learned 
in such things, that by making a fair effort you 
could have talked as you were meant to ; but you 
began to admire this nasal squeaking; so the effort 
was not forthcoming. — 

Miss Law. Take a breath doctor. 
KiL. I don't need to— Now as regarding the lib- 
eral display of your calves, that frailty I rather like, 
for it shows a peculiarly fine specimen for an am- 
putation. 

Miss Law. (flattered.) Thanks! for the im- 
plication that they are well shaped. (Flushing.) 
But I want you to admire them more sentimentally. 
and less professionally. 

KiL. (smiling.) I shall endeavor to do so. Now 
that calmness has returned, I see how ill-bred it was 
to make a harsh allusion to your mode of speech: 
but your slur upon my name rikd me : — forgive me, 

I pray. 

Miss Law. We were both to blame, and there- 
fore quits. I did dislike your name, and wanted it 
changed as a condition precedent to my becoming 
Mrs Killem ; but perhaps it's not so bad after all — 
and there's your dear self besides,— so go on doctor 
(blushing) with your proposal. 

KiL. "Proposal ? Who said anything about such a 

thing? . , ^ 

Miss Law. Why didn't you? You said— 1 am 

going to propose. 

KiL. Yes; but that you wear your skirts an inch 
or so longer. Not for mv sake— as it is evident 
from what I said, that I admire them— but for the 
sake of propriety. 

Miss Law. (hotly.) Then you had no idea of 
marriage at all. 

KiL. None whatever— I am wedded already. 

Miss Law. You are. are you ? you scoundrel ! 
How dared you have a wife in secret ; and yet palm 
yourself off on the confiding, as a single man. 

KiL. You mistake, my dear woman ; I mean wed- 
ded to my profession. 

Miss Law. Bah, what nonsense! You are erratic 

in fact you have a screw loose; and are not 

worth my botherine with any longer. Adieu. When 
brother returns tell him I concluded to go home. 

KiL. Where is he? 



16 



FOIBLES 



Miss Law. In the office there with Mr. Staker. 

(Exit right.) 

KiL. Ah, no doubt after a loan ; if not too late 
I'll beat him to it; for Staker's chagrin at supinely 
submitting to a first borrower may give him back- 
bone enough to refuse a second one. (Opening left 
door, he calls) Hey there, Mr. Staker! 

Star, {within.) I will be with you in a minute. 

KiL. (calling.) Come quick, can't wait! 

Stak. (entering.) What is the matter, doctor? 

KiL. I want a loan. 

Stak. Is that all ? 

KiL. Isn't that enough ? 

Stak. Ha, Ha, yes. Well, come to my office and 
wait : the rest will want loans ; and the senator is 
already there for one: and I repeat to you what I 
just said to him, that to be impartial I won't consider 
the idea until all are here. 

KiL. Pshaw! like the others, sir, I want to get 
the first whack — but will have to be content with 
an equal chance. (Exeunt left.) 

Enter Soldier (Mr. Knoblock), and his Wife, 
right. 

Knob, (anxiously.) Where is Staker? (Gazes 
out of left door, closing it again.) Confound it, we 
are not the first, after all ; there two beggars with 
him already : we'll have to wait our turn. 

Mrs. Knob, (after a slight pause.) I say. Knob- 
ble? 

Knob, (interrupting.) That homely nickname 
again, — I told you to cut it out. 

Mrs. Knob. Well, then, Mr. Knoblock, my dear 
husbantl — why didn't you wear your soldier uniform 
as usual ? 

Knob. Because, the minister would cast his con- 
temptible slurs upon it — being free to do so, as he 
will attend the meeiting without his surplice. What 
made you ask? 

Mrs. Knob. Why without it, you look awful 
prosy ; and your bowlegs show to additional dis- 
adlvantage. 

Knob. Bowlegs, eh ! You called them by a far 
different name when we were courting. 

Mrs. Knob. Yes, I was unaware of the ugly fact 
until after our union — your pantaloons had con- 
cealed it. 

Knob. Ha, ha, exactly: the tailors of that period 
knew something ; to-day they are numbskulls. 

Mrs. Knob. Besides, you were a soldier, — the 
glamor of a soldier dazzles the eyes of the average 
girl, and makes her blind to his actual personality. 

Knob. Now dearie — why don't you take off that 
big hat ? Hardly anyone else ever wears a hat in 
the house. And why do you wear hats, anyway, as 
large as, and! shaped like, a small umbrella? 

Mrs. Knob. I wear them, because I doat on 
them! And keep them on, inside, for the same 
reason. It may be a foible of the frailty kind, but 
I glory in it. 



Knob. But, you are the mother of a grown-up 



son. 



Mrs. Knob. All the more credit to me for being 
still a marvel of style, beauty and romance — you 
used to be overjoyed at thait. 

Knob. And I am still: but in some things, the 
hat for instance, you go a trifle — yes, I think I may 
say, a trifle — too far ; and it brings ridicule upon me. 

Mrs. Knob, (hotly.) What made you bring 
me along then? 

Knob. You know very well that we tenants 
bring you women folks along to help flatter Staker 
and his family, when we want to borrow money. 

Mrs. Knob. Yes, — I was only a little sore at you. 

Knob. As I live, here come the minister and 
wife — we can't endure being alone with them. 

Mrs. Knob. Let's go on the balcony. 

Knob. Yes, a good idea. — Oh that we could have 
seen Staker before. (Exeunt rear.) 

Enter Minister (Mr. Postern), and his Wife, 
right. 

Post. Oh, my dear wife, I feel positively in- 
signirkant, without my surplice. 

Mrs. Post. And, Postern, candor compels me to 
say that you look it. 

Post. I am afraid that for the nonce my utter- 
ances will not be thought oracular: and that I may 
be even slighted by others besides the soldier. 

Mrs. Post. Remember that you have me along 
to protect you. 

Post. Yes, you are a tower of strength — actually 
as well as metaphorically, standing as you do, six 
feet high, and built like a longshoreman. 

Mrs. Post, (pleased.) Thanks for the compliment. 

Post. Ah, you glory in possessing it, as much as 
did Sampson. 

Mrs. Post. Even more. 

Post. It is indeed a grand ass'et : but — 

Mrs. Post. But what ? 

Post, (timidly.) It has bred in you a foible: you 
like to dominate everybody and everything. 

Mrs. Post, (loivering at him.) Oh I do, do I? 
Well, if I was milk and water, like you and Ruth, 
the dther tenants would simply ride over us. 

Post, (reflectively.) That is true. 

Mrs. Post. And, what was it that put you in the 
pulpit of a fashionable church, at ten thousand a 
year? 

Post. I often wonder, what? Each time con- 
cluding, (by hoping, against hope), that it was be- 
cause I had' — that which is most dear to clergymen 
— an imposing appearance. 

Mrs. Post. Imposing appearance, fiddlesticks! 
(That and wearing a surplice, are YOUR weak- 
nesses.) Get the idea out of your noddle that you 
look imposing : and you are no oracle ; but your 
utterances are quite commonplace — and what I have 
said, applies to most other pastors. But you all 
have ability — in your case, the ability was lacking 
in push ; and my dominating .spirit, as you term 
it, supplied the deficiency. 



FOIBLES 



17 



Post, (sadly.) I guess you are right, we clergy- 
men are ordinary, after all : — it was your brawn 
plus my schooling. 

Mrs. Post. That well expresses it. 

Post, (uneasily.) I wish Mr. Staker would ap- 
pear : I am anxious to see him ; and yet don't want 
to seem so. 

Mrs. Post. What do you want of him? You came 
here to help arrange for the philanthropist's drive. 

Post. Only ostensibly ; but really to see Staker, 
for I am short of funds. 

Mrs. Post. Bah, you are always short of funds : 
what becomes of your big salary? 

Post. Why, the high cost of living on this block ; 
and liberal donations to the Church's many bene- 
faations. 

Mrs. Post, (reflectively.) Yes, you arc under 
heavy expense — no wonder you fall behind. 

Post. I hope that you will help matters along, as 
usual: flatter Staker, this time; won't you? You 
needn't pile it on thick. 

Mrs. Post, (sternly.) You know I never flatter — 
my way of dealing, will be to frustrate any attempt 
at balking, by sitting down on him hard. 

Post, (laughing.) That will be effective — (grim- 
ly) at least it always has been with me. 

Mrs. Post. The ministerial way, however, in the 
obtaining of money, is to get it by feigning indiffer- 
ence to it. 

Post. Well havn't we always done so ? 

Mrs. Post. Then let's not be here when he comes, 
but out on the balcony. 

Post. But the others may get ahead ot me. 

Mrs. Post. Let them — Staker has an inexhausti- 
ble roll. 

Post. You are wiser than I am. (E.veunt rear) 
Enter Alexander and Ruth, right. 

Alex. Ah Ruth, here we can have the bliss of 
being together, with no fear of our cruel parents. 

Ruth. Yes Alexander; — Aren't the Stakers nice, 
to permit this reception room of theirs to be used 
as a rendezvous for forlorn lovers: young PuUwool 
and his beloved Gertrude, Miss Bacon and her Ed- 
ward, and for us. 

Alex. They love — but they keep it secret ; and 
deem it hopeless; all because their parents would 
be unalterably opposed to their union, from the fact 
that Gertrude and Edward's father, Mr. Staker, is 
not noted nor great. 

Ruth. Oh, foolish parents! isn't it awful? 

Alex. But our case is sadder : we cherish a hope- 
less love, solely because yoiu- minister father, and 
my soldier father, are at enmity. 

Ruth. Ju.5t like Romeo and Juliet. 

Alex. Exactly. (Looking her over.) Ah, you 
make a lovely Juliet ! 

Ruth, (tickled.) Do \, indeed? (Perplexed.) 
But why then do people call me fat? (in spite of my 
efforts to reduce by taking vinegar.) 

Alex, (soothingly.) They are only jealous of 
you. 



Ruth, (still pcrple.ved.) And why do they, call 
me a sawed-off? (in spite of these height producing 
high-heeled shoes.) 

Alex, (admiringly.) Ah, those — they are hne 
— you stand as it were on stilts. 

Ruth, (searching his face.) Do you really 
mean that as a compliment ; or are you only speak- 
ing ironically? 

Alex. I think you found your answer in my 
face. 

Ruth. Oh yes— it fairly beamed admiration. — 
Now, the comparison begun by you — let me finish 
it: (looking him over.) Ah, you make a hand- 
some Romeo ! 

Alex, (tickled.) Do 1, indeed? (Perplexed.) 
But why then do people call me fat, too? (in spite 
of my efforts to reduce by taking— exercise.) 

Ruth, (soothingly.) They are ony jealous of 
you. 

Alex, (still perplexed.) And why do they call 
me a dwarf? (in spite of this height prodticing 
high hat.) 

Ruth, (admiringly.) Ah, that— it is fine — it 
has become an integral part of you ; you wear it all 
the time. 

Alex. Yes, I never take it off, except when I 
retire. 

Ruth. Oh. why don't you keep it on in bed? 

Alex, (searching her face.) Do you really liki^ 
it; or are you only kidin' nue? 

Ruth. I think you found your answer in my 
face. 

Alex. Oh yes — it fairly beamed admiration. 
—Forgive me for doubting you ; but I am made 
fun of in it, by the tenants, and called unmannerly 
for wearing it in company : they term it a ridicu- 
lous foible. 

Ruth. That's just What they term my high 
heels. Mr. Bacon the poet, however, .said some- 
thing pretty about your hat. 

Alex. ( eagerly. ) What was it ? 

Ruth. I can't just remember — ah yes. he said 
that the smoke of the fires of your genius went 
up through your stovepipe hat. 

Alex, (pleased, but puzsled-) That IS praise; 
but it seems to have a vein of sarcasm. 

Ruth. Hush, there's footsteps on the balcony. 
(They turn and look toward the rear.) 

Alex. Our parents! (They crouch back dis- 
mayed ) 

Re-enter Mr. & Mrs. Knoblock 
and Mr. & Mrs. Postem, rear. 

Knob. & Post, (to each other.) Ah, this door- 
way brings me face to face with YOL^. 
Note. With the exception of short speeches, and 
perhaps some other exceptions, it is unnatural 
to expect two, or more, speakers, to speak exactly 
the same speech, together: as they would 
hardly hit upon exactly the same speech. There- 
fore wherever in the play any speech is written 



18 



FOIBLES 



to be delivered by two, or more, speaking together 
— either where they speak it, to one another : or 
where they speak it, to others — the actors must hit 
upon some ingenious way to do it — perhaps by hav- 
ing it repeated, or echoed as it were, after a first 
speaker : or speak it together nearly alike : or each 
one speak a different section of it : or possibly some 
other way. 

Mrs. Knob & Mrs. Post, {to each other.) Yes, 
in trying to quit the annoying proximity of your 
husband and yourself, outside. 

Knob, {sneeringly to Postern.) I cannot help 
but observe, sir, that without your surplice, you look 
dismally ordinary. 

Post, {sneeringly to KnoUock.) I cannot help 
but observe, sir, that without your uniform, you 
look painfully commonplace. 

Knob. Why didn't you wear the surplice — you 
love to be togged out in it, don't you? 

Post. Why didn't you wear the uniform — you 
love to be togged out in it, don't you? 

Knob. No more so, than what is natural under 
the circumstances. 

Post. Neither do I. 

Mrs. Post. Ha, ha, no more than is natural, eh— 
why, the wearing of them is the rankest kind of a 
foible, with both of you. 

Mrs. Knob, {seeing the lovers-) Why, there 
is Alexander. 

Mrs. Post. And Ruth. 

Kkob. {angrily to Alex.) Wliat are you doing 
in her company? 

Post, {angrily to Ruth.) What are you doing 
in his company ? 

Ruth & Alex, {after hesitation, embracing.) 
We are lovers ! {This declaration causes a general 
guffaw) 

Knob, {sarcastically.) Oh, you are, are you? 
Well you make a pretty pair of lovers. 

Alex, {proudly.) Of course we do— just as 
lovely as the loveliest. 

Ruth. Yes,— even though in us beauty has taken 
an unusual manner of expression. 

Mrs. Knob. & Mrs. Post. Ha, ha, what delusions. 

Pqst. (to Ale.v.) So you expect to wed my 
daughter, do you? 

Alex, {sadly.) No, ours is a hopeless love! for 
Ru'h requires your consent; and that, she says, you 
will never give. 

Mr. & Mrs. Post, {emphaticaliy.) Never, never. 

Post, {continuing, emotionally.) And yet, I am 
anxious to be rid of her ; for she is only a subject 
of ridicule, and brings contempt upon me — 

Ruth, {stung.) Well even if people do laugh at 
me, that is more than they do at the stale jokes you 
tell in the pulpit. 

Post, {stung.) Don't interrupt. — To resume: I 
prayed to heaven for a good child, and it was an- 
swered—for she is'a saint : but a sinner, if of norm.il 
shape, would be preferable. 



Mrs. Post, (sternly.) Postem, what ails you? 
our bitter regrets are not for others' ears. 

Post, (contritely.) I was foolish, and also un- 
christian and unfatherly, but my emotion overcame 
me. 

Knob. {emotionally.) And my emotion too, 
overcomes me; the gall and wormwood of years 
must have voice ; A soldier, in my youth ; with pre- 
monitions of coming greatness: (which greatness 
has now been fully achieved, by heroic deeds) — 

Mrs. Knob, (curtly.) Why, my dear husband — 
you always say that it was more luck than bravery. 

Knob, (chagrined.) Don't butt in. — Being an 
optimistic young-soldier, as I said — I married— and 
demanded, (praying for, is not my forte), a son; 
to bless the union ; who could my expected glory 
perp>etuate: a daughter, came instead — and I cursed 
my fate ; as if in penalty, the child died, — and two 
years later came the longed-for son: I named him 
after the great Alexander: — but what an Alexan- 
der ? Far too short, even to enter tlie army : only 
sent to me, it seems, to be a sting in my present 
fame, as a great general. 

Alex, (spiritedly.) Well father, you have now 
spoken bluntly, what you have often hinted at. Still, 
I must say that I am stuck on my shape ; and 
only for your sake would I be different — regarding 
your trouble, there's an easy way out of it: become 
friends with the parson ; then Ruth and I can wed : 
and go live in an out-of-the-way place. 

Knob, (hotly.) Make friends with him, — never! 
Nor shall you ever wed his daughter ! 

Post, (hotly.) Don't worry, —my Ruth shall 
never marry your son ! 

Mrs. Knob. Alexander, quit this farce, at once : 
and never dare renew it : — go home. 

Mrs. Post. Ruth, you too go home: and never 
dare speak together again. 

Alex. & Ruth, (rushing in embrace.) What, 
parted for good — how can we ever be reconciled to 
that! 

Knob. & Post, (angrily.) I'll tell you how! 
(Adz'ancing, Knob takes Alex, and Post takes Ruth, 
by the ear and pull them apart, then turn them over 
knee and spank them.) 

Alex. & Ruth, (wriggling with pain.) Oh, Oh! 

Knob. & Post. Do you promise, never to be in 
each other's company again ? 

Alex. & Ruth. Yes, oh yes ! 

Knob. & Post, (stopping, release them.) Go 
home now. 

(Exeunt Alex & Ruth ivith crest-fallen air, right.) 
Re-enter Staker, left. 

Stak. (greeting.) Ah, Ladies. 

Mrs. Knob. & Mrs. Post, (greeting.) Dear Mr. 
Staker. 

Stak. The senator, doctor and myself are wait- 
ing, gentlemen, for you — what, quarreling again? 
your faces look as black as thunder-clouds : let me 
be your pacificator ; let me calm you down :— ah, my 



FOIBLES 



19 



exquisite manners have already been a balm to your 
wrath. 

Post. Ha, ha, Staker, the manners that you deem 
to be exquisite, are really very asinine. 

Knob. In plain vi^ords, Staker, you are an ass. 
Stak. {miffed, to both ) What's that? 
Mrs. Knob. & Mrs. Post, {aside, each to her hus- 
band.) You fool, he is nutty on the subject of his 
exquisite manners : your slurring of the foible, may 
mean the stoppage of loans — you must mollify him. 
Stak. {still miffed.) Hah, each couple of you, 
whispering together ; despite the fact that I impa- 
tiently await an apology. 

Knob, {aside.) How shall I square myself with 
him? well here goes: {to Staker) That animal's pos- 
tures and braying, being the nearest approach to ab- 
solute perfection in deportment and speech, is why 
I called you an ass. 

Post, {chuckling.) That too is exactly what I 
meant. 

Stak. {highly tickled.) Ah! A\\\— {Apologetic.) 
How stupid of me not to get you at first. 

Knob. & Post, {relieved.) Not, stupid: but, sur- 
prising. 

Enter A Tough, right. 
Stak. {surprised.) Who are you, and what do 
you vrant here? 

Tough. Which one of you, is his knob-sf 
Stak. Who do you mean ? 
Tough. Why, his lafchkcy-s. 
Stak. Cut out these ridiculous nicknames, and 
give us his real name. 

Tough. I can't exactly ; I only remember that 
he is named after the fixings of a door— the lock, 
the knob. 

Stak. Ha, ha, you mean Mr Knoblock. 
Tough. Yes, that's it. 
Stak. This is the gentleman. 
Knob. Well you loon, what do you want of me? 
Tough. Why, Alexander and Ruth, are just 
suited to each other ; and if you don't let them wed, 
I'll knock your block off. 

Knob, {sternly.) And, who are you? 
Tough, {threateningly ) I'm a tough, I am. 
Knob. In that case, the prop>er place for you is 
the jug — call up the police, Staker. 

Tough. Not just yet; wait a bit. On my way 
here, I met Alexander, and he gave me an inkling 
that Ruth and he had been caught here, and separa- 
ted forever by parental severity : I felt sad, but — 
shame on me — when I caught a glimpse of you thru 
the door, this prank suggested itself. Now to 
change from the tough {he synooths hair zinth a 
pocket-comb and turns down coat-collar) back to — 
All. The artist! {Spoken quickly in surprise) 
Mrs. Knob, {contemptuously.) Another of his 
practical jokes. 

Post. Why didn't you intersperse it with pro- 
fanity as usual ? 
Daub, {laughing.) The ladies only prevented me. 
Knob, {wrathfully.) Dauber, do you think it 



creditable, that you, a fine renowned painter, should 
habitually indulge in — joking and swearing. 

Daub. No, I admit that they are foibles. {Weird 
nose-bloTving is heard.) Not so bad however as this 
weird nose-blowing one of the ainbassador — sound- 
ing loudly here, though he is yet distant. 

All. {distastefully.) It is a horrid habit. 

Daub. Yes; and his other weakness — to wear 
glitter and gilt — is absurd. 

Knob. & Post, {guiltily.) Humph.— 

Stak. But remember, he is getting old and infirm. 

Daub. Old age does bring on infinnities — still 
many of these are partly self-incurred, and there- 
fore partly foibles. 

All. {startled by another nose-blow.) He is 
close at hand now. 

Enter Ambassador (Mr. Mirabeau), right. 

Mir. {strutting forward.) How do you like 
my new ambassadorial uniform? 

All. {sneeringly.) Oh, you look like a perfect 
peacock ! 

Daub, {continuing.) More gorgeous even than 
usual. 

Post. But you only bought a new one last week. 

Knob. Well, he buys one every week. 

Mir. Not quite so often; but I would like to, if 
my heavy pension, were still heavier: (some of it 
goes, you know, for my large retinue ; and the enter- 
taining of many guests) : as it is, I had to buy this 
one on installments. 

All. {snickering.) Did you, indeed. 

Mrs. Knob. Pardon me, Mr. Mirabeau, but is it 
the custom among you europeans, for a retired 
ambassador, like yourself, to still wear the unitorm? 

Mir. No, it is not ; but it is permissible. A few 
words here : When I became ambassador, I coveted 
to be great, — Now, true greatness is found m the 
masses : who perform their humble duties, in joy or 
sorrow, security or danger, faithfully, but are never 
heard of, — I wanted however to be in the public eye; 
to be one of those men who are considered great 
because they have made a noise in the world — Now 
such noises are made in various ways, — I finally hit 
upon a way ; rather unusual I admit, yet producing 
as fine a product as the other noises in vogue — that, 
of lo%id nose-blowing. 

All. {laughing.) Quite ingenious. 

Mir. Afterwards, realizing that the public are 
wild for theatrical display, I backed the noise up 
with the wearing of splendid costume. 

All. And the people fell for it. 

Mir. As you intimate, when I retired I was 
famous everywhere. Fame wanes however in spite 
of noise and glitter; and {sadly) so did mine — my 
wife said, you are played out here — leave your 
grown-up children and me, and go to great New 
York; where you will be, if not a celebrity, at least 
a curiosity. 

All. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Mir. What? I can't see any joke. 



20 



FOIBLES 



Mrs. Post, (soothingly.) Of course not: (aside) 
you old imbecile. 

Daub, (cuttingly.) To sum up, Mirabeau, you 
began these odd habits for to advertise yourself ; 
and they have grown on you, and are now become 
pet hobbies— aren't they? 

Mir. (reluctantly.) I suppose so. 

(All begin now to sniff a smell that evidently 
comes ill at right door.) 

All. (dismayed.) The poet and his pipe. 

Mrs. Knob, (contimdng.) Ah, significant allit- 
eration: signifying plainly what a well-known nui- 
sance is at hand. 

Mrs. Post. If his wife is along, we'll be treated 
to some slang as usual. 

Knob. Isn't it a horrid habit ; and she so proud 
too. 

Mrs. Knob. Proud, nothing — it is only snob- 
bery : she must have come from an ordinary family. 

Enter Poet (Mr. Bacon), smoking a pipe; and 
his Wife, right. 

Daub, (laughing at them.) Jack Sprat would eat 
no fat and his wife would eat no lean. 

Mr. & Mrs. Bac. Sir—? 

Daub, (apologetic.) Pardon me, Mrs. Bacon, for 
using this familiar line to describe both of you ; but 
your hubbie is so lean, and you are so fat. 

Mrs. Bac. (resentfully.) What you say cuts no 
ice, for you are bughouse. 

Bac. In deference to you ladies, I am letting my 
pipe go out. 

Mrs. Post, (ironically.) Oh don't do it I pray; 
the odor is so peculiar. 

Mrs. Knob, (ionically.) And we so rarely have a 
chance to smell it. 

Bac. (puffing again.) I am highly flattered. 

Mrs. Bac. Oh, douse the glim, Bakie, you nut : 
can't you see that the ladies are only pokin' fun at 
you. 

Bac. What, do you think so? Well then just a 
few more puffs, (puffs away.) 

Mrs. Bac. (impatiently.) Isn't it rotten that you 
in other respects as proud as the old boy, should 
always be suckin' on a stinkin' old pipe. 

Bac. (knocking out pipe.) Why, dear, excessive 
smoking is one of the most prevalent of foibles. — 
Now, isn't it a shame that you, proud to an inordin- 
ate degree, should be addicted to the constant use of 
slang. 

Mrs. Bac. Oh, it's not so bum a failing: the 
best way to say anjthing, is to spit it out as plain 
and short as you can. 

Mrs. Knob. There's another thing, Mr. Bacon : 
Why do you dress like the toilers ; and make them 
the subject of your poems; when you have no real 
liking for them— you being high-toned and exclu- 
sive like the rest of us? 

Bag. Why?— Much of your talk begins thus, for 
you are inquisitive; it is ONE of your failings. But 
I will gratify you, by saying: I am called the poet 



of labor ; and my books are heavily bought by 
laborers, 

Mrs. Knob. Ah, you do it to advertise yourself ? 

Bac. Exactly, — are you satisfied? 

Mrs. Knob. Yyes, as near as curiosity ever can 
be. 

Re-enter Killem, Law, and Gabbler, left. 

Stak. Ah, gentlemen, you are growing impatient. 

Law. Well, my caller is. (Points to Gabbler) 

Stak. I found our friends here. 

Kil. And they dillydallied the time away, gossip- 
ing ; and forgot all else. 

All. (indignantly.) Gossiping, indeed. 

Kil. Don't assume injured innocence, — all of you 
have many foibles: in fact, on the block, I am the 
only exception — 

All. Ha, ha, how about your chin-music? 

Kil. Don't interrupt. — And, you not only have 
them, but you delight in backbiting each other about 
them, and other things : so, we must add still another 
foible, to yours : that of gossiping. 

All. (wearily.) Oh, give us a rest. 

Enter the Philanthropist (Mr. Pullwool), in 
full-dress attire, and his Wife, in costly attire with 
jewel necklace and ear-rings, right. 

All. (greeting.) Ah, dear Mr and Mrs Pullwool. 

Mr. & Mrs. Pull, (greeting.) Dear ladies and 
gentlemen. 

Several, (sneeringly.) You are both sumptuously 
attired, as usual. 

Note. Whenever the word 'several' is used instead 
of 'speakers names' it means that that particular 
speech is to be spoken by several persons, sensibly 
selected — according to the drift of the dialogue — 
from the males and females present. 

Knob. Well, you know that there is big money in 
begging. 

Mr. & Mrs. Pull. Sir—? 

Kil. Why shouldn't they revel in their pet foible 
— elegant attire: they are both distinguished looking: 
slickly cultivated ; and have the graces of mel- 
lowed age. 

Mrs. Knob. But, the cost, — we can't do it, and 
how can they? 

Pull. My salary is large as President of the 
Home and Foreign Money-aid and Moral-uplift 
Society. 

Mrs. Post. That salary is a mere flea-bite in com- 
parison with your expenses. 

Daub. Perhaps he knocks down on the money that 
his Society begs from the public to give to the un- 
fortunate. 

Pull, (guiltily.) Sir — ? Now you don't really 
mean that. 

Daub, (insincerely.) No of course not — but then 
you know that lots of people say, that perhaps there 
have been cases where a part of the immense sums 
raised for benevolent and moralizing purposes by 
'drives,' has stuck fast to the fingers of the high 
cockalorums of the organizations. 



FOIBLES 



21 



Mrs. Puix. {coming to her agitated husbancfs 
aid.) Lots of people, say things besides their 
prayers. 

Knob. The Church has done glorious work in the 
past; and is to do glorious work in the future 1 
Yet some say, that, at a few religious services, 
begging, is one of the main functions, (as evidenced 
by the fact that 'collections' are taken up, for so 
very many purposes,) and that this makes people 
lukewarm to those particular places, and hurts re- 
ligion in general. 

Post, (excitedly.) That is a damn — er excuse me, 
I never use profanity — that is a wicked — slander! 
(Aside.) Egad, he is right: why, as regard's myself 
when I started on my pastorate, I was tender on the 
subject of begging; but the machine of the organ- 
ization, has made even me pitiless. 

Pull, (composed again.) The innuendoes of all 
of you are more pointed than usual ; but I take them 
good-humoredly, for am I not universally acclaimed 
a great philanthropist ; a man who is keenly alive 
to the misfortunes of others, and seeks to alleviate 
them. 

Several. Yes, but — 

Pull. Well, out with the reservation. 

Several. You are also spoken of by many as a 
Pull-wool-over-the-eyes. 

Pull, (angrily.) These people ought to be cow- 
hidied !— Pullwool, is a lovely but rather unusual 
name : on hearing it, one is at once inclined to play 
upon words and turn it into this familiar 'slang 
term for deception' phrase — pull wool over the eyes : 
— these slanderers chose a good weapon. 

Mrs. Pull, (scornfully.) There are some foibles 
which possess no redeeming features : one of these 
is envy — and these slanderers, and some of our 
friends here too ; (like so many others ;) have taken 
it on. 

Several, (stung.) Envious, indeed ! 

Bac. It seems to me, tliat the less said about his 
knocking down, the better ; as each one of us 
would be particeps criminis: for to help his beg- 
ging drives along, we permit him to publicly dis- 
play our pictures, and our names underneath; with 
this headline, "What these great men think of our 
cause:" getting for it, a substantial stipend each, 
and additional prestige. 

Law. By the by, speaking of begging — there is 
a bill up in the United States Senate, against it. 

Several. There is! What is it? 

Law. Why, to prohibit, all 'indiscriminate' beg- 
ging, from the public, by benevolent, or other, Or- 
ganizations, — and all other begging done by them, 
must be done with the consent of a Government 
Censorship Board; and a final accounting must be 
made to, and approved by, this Board. 

Several. Well, isn't that ridiculous ! — ^Wliy didm't 
you speak of it before? 

Law. Why, I have only been home on the recess, 
a few days. 



Several. But it can never be passed in the senate 
and house, and signed by the president. 

Law. On the contrary, it is almost sure to become 
a law, when we reconvene shortly. 

Several, (dismayed.) The deuce you say ! — Of 
course YOU oppose it? 

Law. No — I spoke in its favor. 

Several, (wrathfully.) "What? and you getting 
graft from the philanthropist's begging! 

Law. (sheepishly.) Well you see, that, I made an 
exhaustive study of the subject of begging, with 
the idea of speaking in opposition to the bill : but, 
the order of sf>eaking being prearranged!, it so 
chanced that I had to follow a senator who had 
spoken against the bill; therefore I spoke in its 
favor— just to differ from him. 

Pull, (wrathfully.) You are obstinate as a mule 
— you seldom agree with anyone — obstinacy is your 
other foible ! 

Law. (retorting.) Is it? Well, begging is your 
foible! (Pointedly) And that foible sometimes grows 
into a fault ; even into a crime. 

Pull, (guiltily.) Bah! 

Post. But, senator, some no doubt had previously 
spoken for the bill, — you had to, perforce, agree 
with them. 

Law. Yes, I realized that a little later, and felt 
sore about it — ^but was consoled upon reflecting that 
my speech was better than theirs: — (enthused) Oh; 
it was a dandy ! I will repeat it to you — still know- 
ing it by heart. 

Several, (expostulating.) Oh no, I beg. 

Law. Your aversion, shall not deter me ; we grow 
callous to that, in the senate. I will at least give you, 
the peroration. 

Several, (resignedly.) Well then, go on. 

Law. After rising, and saluting the Chairman, I 
began my speech by emphasizing the crying need of 
curbing, begging from the public by large organi- 
zations, even before the great World War of 1914 
-'18. Then I gave a vivid recital of the stupendous 
war drive begging, that occurred during the titanic 
struggle : which I characterized as having been com- 
paratively noble, necessary and honest, considering 
the surrounding chaos ; but I qualified by as- 
serting that the former evil features of organized 
begging were tremendously augmented by it. Some 
years have elapsed since that world war — I said— 
and the aftermath of suffering that grew out of it, 
has been about succored, by the numerous organized 
begging drives, conducted for that purpose, since 
the war ended ; and now the people — I said — are 
demanding reforms : they refuse to permit these ag- 
gravated evils in begging, to continue any longer. 
And this — said I — is what the present anti-begging 
measure really stands for. Then came my perora- 
tion: (Law delivers this oratorically) Mr. Chairman, 
war — is destructive and deadly — but out of its hor- 
rors, come great reforms ; which perhaps might not 
come any other way. The World War — made it 
indispensible that vast sums of money should be rais- 



22 



FOIBLES 



ed and spent for charitable and religious purposes. 
It was awful on the masses — but it had to be done. 
Out of the horror of it — and the cupidity of it — let 
us hope that a great reform will come ; which per- 
haps could come no other way — that of, the aboli- 
tion of "indiscriminate begging by organizations," 
and government censorship of "discriminate beg- 
ging by organizations." The meaning, Mr Chair- 
man, of the word discriminate (as used here), is not 
open to doubt — for it is expressly defined, in the bill, 
as that which is honest in purpose and small in ex- 
tent. (Law's speech, delivered as though he were 
actually in senate, now ends — and is met with 
general cries of 'rotten' and isolated cries of 'bra- 
vo'). 

Post, {hotly.) Yes, rotten, is an apt name for 
that balderdash. 

Daub. We don't like the speech, because we are 
not disinterested parties : it was a fine effort, setting 
forth a great evil — of which the public are fully 
aware, but don't care a damn about correcting. 

Pull, (apart ivith grave face — aside.) Indis- 
criminate begging, is doomed. (Chuckling) But I am 
already a multi millionaire, out of it. — To keep on 
allaying their aroused suspicion of my knocking- 
downs, I must touch Staker again. (Rejoins group) 
Pardon me, friends, but I can't restrain my anxiety 
longer— I am in urgent need of a loan, Mr. Staker. 

Males, (excitedly, each for himself.) So am I. 
Mr. Staker. 

Stak. Ha, ha, gentlemen, one seldom sees such 
unanimity among you. 

Males, (protesting). You would not see it 
now — but we are all broke. 

Stak. I told the senator that I would not con- 
sider a loan — 

Males, (dismayed) . What, you will not accom- 
modate us ! 

Stak. Let me finish, — until you were all here. 
Now you are here; and — let me see — yes you may 
have two thousand dollars apiece. 

All. (flatteringly.) Ah, Mr. Staker, you are a 
gentleman — and a scholar — and many other things, 
too numerous to mention ! 

Stak. (tickled.) I thank you. — Now, my wife, 
has assigned the parlor for Mr. Pullwool's use — 
(and she and the children will be delighted to see 
you all when the meeting is over) — come ladies and 
gentlemen. 

Pull. Many thanks, sir! The ladies, however, 
won't come, — you see, we males, have held our drive 
meetings, in the doctor's house ; this one we hold 
here, and the ladies avail themselves of any pretext 
to call here. 

Females. We admire you so ! 

Stak. (elated.) Ah, that's nice! — Take them 
along, sirs ; we can't do anything well without them. 

Males. All right. 

Pull. Our business won't take long: my board of 
directors and myself, have already arranged the vast 



details ; and my only business with you gentlemen, is 
to assign each his part. 

Males. Very well — but how about those checks, 
Mr Staker? 

Stak. The order of proceedings, in the parlor, 
shall be: first, the checks — then the drive. 

Post. No, then a prayer. 

Several. Then, the drive. 

Pull. & Post. No, then a collection. 

Several. Ha, ha, ha — surely you charity and 
church people, have all got that foible which is com- 
monest with humanity in general — a little too much 
love of money. (Exeunt right) 



Scene \ll.—The Reception Room, in Mr. Staker' s 
home, again, ten minutes later. 
Enter Bridget, zvith a tray full of empty cake 
and fruit dishes, right. 

Brid. (reflectively.) Sich iligant persons they 
were ; didn't look a bit like drivers : — yet the mis- 
tress said, whin the kitchen bell r-ang— that is the 
master's signal that the DRIVERS have just assem- 
bled in the parlor, Bridget, take them these deli- 
caseys — b'gorrathat word has an irish, (instead of a 
latin) root: I know the Caseys, well. But oh my, 
they ate like drivers : everything gobbled from these 
dishes in ten minutes— and they dining, too— the 
mistress said— around seven o'clock ; less than an 
hour away — ( s mi I in g) perhaps ihey don't git e'nuff 
to ate at home. (Smacking her lips.) B' jabers, we 
all love good ateing however — that foy'ble is priv- 
alent iverywhere. (Abruptly-) Oh, the litters,— 
whin you I'ave the parlor, said the mistress, go 
across the hall and dhrop the mail in the reception 
room. (Lays som.e letters on a stand.) 

Enter Violet — alias Miss Bangs, right. 

Vio. Anything there for Miss Bangs? 

Brid. (scrutinising letters.) Yis, — is that your 
name? 

Vio. It is. (Bridget hands letter, and Violet 
opens and skims it hastily.) Or I should say rather, 
my nickname : — given me because of the wearing 
of these thick bangs, above my ears, — you see them ? 

Brid. I do indade — b'gorra I could see 'em with 
my eyes shut. 

Vio. (eagerly.) How do they look? 

Brid. Upon my sowl, they look like the divil. 

Vio. (mortified in inanity.) What? — Oh you 
have hurt my feelings dreadfully — I am supersensi- 
tive about them. 

Brid. (blarneying.) Why, my dear, that was a 
rale compliment. 

Vio. How can you say so? 

Brid. Well, now. what is y'er objict in wearin' 
them? 

Vio. Why, to look fascinating, of course. 

Brid. Exactly,— and the divil, is fascination per- 
sonified. 

Vio. He certainly is said to be. 



FOIBLES 



23 



Brid. At the first glimpse, I ra'alized how they 
must tempt and tantalize amorous young men. 

Vio. (tickled.) Oh, you have not only given 
definite shape, to my intangible hopes regarding 
them, but made me feel that they liave accomplished 
what I hoped for ! 

Brid. I get yez, I think, — in .spite of your use of 
some jaw-breaker words. 

Vio. Ha, ha.— Now, how do you like my — tight 
skirt? 

Brid. Fa'th, I don't like it, a'tall a'tall. 

Vio. (hurt again.) How is that? — 

Brid. Why, whin any girl condescinds to wear 
a skinny thing like that, it shows that she is slight- 
ly non compos mentis. 

Vio. What in the world is that? 

Brid. Why, bughouse. (Violet laughs). — And the 
uncanny thing, will make her more so — until she 
is like to do something disperate. 

Vio. They do make us giddy, I admit : but there 
is restraint, too; for, you see (gives the ludicrous 
tight skirt walk) that one cannot take an inpor- 
tant step, without due deliberation. 

Brid. (^mtching curiously.) Upon me sowl, 
one cannot take hardly any step a'tall. 

Vio. Ha, ha.— Now besides these two foibles, I 
have still another. 

Brid. Yis — 'painting your face' — ^B'jabbers you 
must have given it two coats. 

Vio. (naively). Yes — I do plaster it on pretty 
thick. You see, I strive to be, in all things, one of 
the typical girls of the period. 

Brid. The kind that all the fellows are crazy 
after — shallow, vain and frivolous : that's what 
yez mznt. (Violet dissents.) There, don't get huffy 
— fthere's no har-m ; for all gir-ls main objict in life 
is to display their char-ms — and besides you are 
very beautiful. 

Vio. (elated.) Oh, thank you! And you said 
what everyone says. But, Gertrude Staker — she i.s 
perfectly lovely. 

Brid. I haven't seen her : I was just hired- Aren't 
you a Staker? 

Vio. No, I am Violet Bacon, the poet's daughter 
— on the block. 

Brid. What, your fa'ther writes varses — isn't 
that nice? 

Vio. Yes, indeed. 

Brid. Come to think, I'd best be I'aving now ; the 
mistress may be wantin' of me. Good-bye. 

Vio. Good-bye. (E.vit Bridget, right.) 
Enter Edward, right. 

Edw. Did you get tired of waiting, Violet ? 

Vio. No Edward, for I had very agreeable com- 
pany. 

Edw. (suspiciously.) Who was it^a young man ? 

Vio. Ah, you are jealous, as usual — still, green- 
eyed jealousy, is a foible, not uncommon with lovers. 

Edw. Well, you can't blame me: for you are 
beautiful ! 

Vio. (blushing.) Oh, thank you. 



Edw. And all the fellows are sweet on you. 

Vio. Well, you are handsome ! 

Edw. (crimsoning.) Oh, thank you. 

Vio. — And all the girls are sweet on you. 

Edw. But, I don't give them any encouragement 
— and you do, — and we being engaged, too. 

Vio. Well, smarty, my company just now was 
an amusing servant girl. 

Edw. (relieved.) Not a fellow at all— oh my, 
what a cad I 3im:(taking her hands, an instant) but 
then I love you so! 

Vio. (lovingly.) Cross your heart that you do! 
(He does.) Why did you stop at the gymnasium, 
on your way from the office ? 

Edw. Ah, you got my note, stating that I would 
be a little late, on account of that ? 

Vio. Yes, since I came in. — You knew I was to 
be here — and I am, or should be, more important, 
than the gymnasium. 

Edw. But my dear, if I don't exercise, I will 
lose my strength — and I wouldn't lose that for any- 
thing. 

Vio. (quizzically) . You would even sooner lose 
me, I presume? 

Edw. (perplexed). Well, I can't exactly decide 
that point. 

Vio. (pouting.) Oh you can't, eh, Edward 
Staker ? ( Walks away. ) 

Edw. (aside.) She is mififed. — And I must 
square myself now before telling her of my muscular 
feat to-day — ah, when she hears that, she will be 
amazed — and be still more stuck on me. (Goes to 
Violet.) Violet, you know that I would sooner lose 
even my life, than to lose you. 

Vio. (beaming.) Now you talk sensibly. 

Edw. Yes, a lover's sensibly. — By the by, after 
leaving the gym it so chanced that I met a very fat 
woman with a child in her arms, stuck in the street 
amidst the heavy traflfic: taking her up and holding 
her almost at arms length, I deposited her on the 
opposite sidewalk. (Expectantly azvaits praise, then 
impatiently says.) Well — ? 

Vio. (at last.) Was she pretty ? 

Edw. "Was she pretty?" — that is whait 1 get, 
instead of the expected exclamaitions of admiration 
for these. (Exercises his arm muscles.) I distinctly 
said she was very fat. 

Vio. But still she might have been pretty. 

Edw. She might have been, but she wasn't. 

Vio. Ha, ha, dear, everybody is on to this pet 
foible of yours— the bragging about your physical 
strength : that feat to-day was no doubt, very largely, 
only imaginary — that's why I didn't praise it. 

Edw. (hctly.) Bragging, eh? Why I-er-(Fjo/cf 
roguishly covers his lips with her hand.) 

Vio. Hush — somebody's coming! The front- 
door bell didn't ring, but the door slammed. (Peeps 
out of right door, closing it again.) What a relief 
to my scare ; it was your sister Gertrude that came 
in ; she sits in the hall, seemingly awaiting some one 
— it must be Sport PuUwool. 



24 



FOIBLES 



automobile 

love that is 

-you know. 



Edw. Of course it is; — like myself, he wants to 
see his girlie, as soon as he gets home from his 
father's office. 

Vio. Ah, some clay, in .^pite of hearkening for the 
warning door-bell, we'll be caught by my parents: 
or some other tenants — who will tattle: — I can't be 
happy — I'm on nettles. 

Edw. The course of true love, never runs smooth. 

Vio. The course of ours, is so rough, that, we al- 
ways have to keep a tire chain, on the wheels of our 
limousine. 

Edw. Ha, ha, you ring in a little 
terminology. 

Vio. But dear, must we cherish a 
secret, and hopeless — {sadly) forever? 

Edw. While there is life, there's hope- 

Vio. (brightening.) Ah, yes— hope! That, as 
the poet says, springs eternal in the human breast. 

Edw. Come to think, (ardently) we love to spoon, 
don't we? 

Vio. (ardently.) Well I should say we did! 
(They kiss.) 

Edw. Then let's give them a chance. 

Vio. By going on the balcony, yes. (Exeunt, 
rear. ) 

Enter Otis, alias Sport, and Gertrude, right. 

Otis. My perfectly beautiful Gertrude! 

Ger. My perfectly handsome Otis ! (short em- 
brace with kiss) 

Otis. What bliss, to have you alone for a few 
moments I 

Ger. Which bliss, is mutual I assure you ! 

Otis, (laughing.) But the perfectly handsome — 
why I am near thirty. 

Ger. That's quite young — and! you ARE (and 
everybody says so,) very handsome. 

Otis, (debonairly.) Thank you, dear — and 
everybody else. Now. don't let's forget to keep our 
ears peeled for the warning front-door bell, as 
usual. Pop, or some tattler may catch us. 

Ger. (sadly.) And then we won't be able to 
cherish even a secret, and hopeless love : as Edward 
and Violet, and you and' I, often dolefully call it. 

Otis. Oh, why are the poet and father, so stuck 
on having Violet and myself marry into great fam- 
ilies ; or why were not Edward and yourself born 
great ! 

Ger. {proudly.) We were born great— at least, 
on mother's side. 

Otis, (chuckling.) I beg your pardon, I forgot, 
of course you were : your mother and you often 
narrate to the tenants, the full particulars of your 
descent from king Robert Bruce :-Now an old fogy 
from New Jersey, whose name is Dickson, becom- 
ing aware that there was a great general of the 
name of Dickson, who was along with Washington 
when he crossed the Delaware, soon provedi — ^to 
himself alone— that his great-great-grandfather was 
that man: (tliough in reality he was never anything 
else but a tinsmith :) and goes around telling every- 
one about it: — that is HIS pipe-dream foible. 



Ger. (incensed) That is his, and this is our 
pipe-dream foible: that is what you meant, isn't it? 

Otis, (confused.) Well, er— not exactly, — but it 
hasn't made much impression on the poet and fa- 
ther: for Edward and you know that it would be 
suicidal, for Violet and myself to disclose our love 
to them. 

Ger. (positively.) Of course it would. 

Otis, (sadly.) Ah, dear, but for this black cloud, 
our love, would be all blue sky, wouldn't it? 

Ger. Yes, — almost. 

Otis, (surprised.) Almost? Why what else is 
there? First let's sit down. (They sit an sofa) 

Ger. (looking him in the eyes.) Now Otis dear? 

Otis. What is it dear Gertrude? 

Ger. a question that I have long been thinking of 
asking you. Why are you so generally nicknamed, 
.S'port Pullwool? 

Otis, (laughing.) Why I presume, because I AM 
a sport. 

Ger. (apprehensively.) Now, what is a sport? 

Otis, (after thinking.) Well, he is one of that 
very large class of swift young men, who seek to 
win the first prize in the marathon race for the grat- 
ification of the senses, and are not over particular 
in regard to foul runnii.g. 

Ger. I don't altogether understand. 

Otis. Then to make it more definite — I am what 
is commonly called a fast young man. 

Ger. (ivorricd.) Hah, indeed! — 1 have met young 
men, who were knowingly said to be such, and I my- 
self and other girls found them to be very fascina- 
ting ; but it must have been the fascination of a rep- 
tile. 

Otis, (disconcerted) Rather a dangerous sort 
of a chap, eh; for a young girl to wed. 

Ger. (meaningly.) Of course. 

Otis, (reassuring.) Don't be distressed, dear: 
many of this kind of fellows, do have real vices; 
but I — er — why I only call mine, foibles. 

Ger. (anxiously.) VVhat are they? 

Otis. Why, automobiles : and stock-speculation : 

Ger. (greatly relieved.) Oh, I know something of 
your liking for them ; they are not so bad. 

Otis. And women. 

Ger. (shocked.) Women! It can't be possible that 
you were licentious. 

Otis, (guiltily.) Yes — before I loved you: (sol- 
cimily) but not since; and never shall be again. 

Ger. (deeply grieved.) Oh, what a bitter, bitter 
disillusionment ! 

Otis, (remorseful.) Don't grieve, dear: most 
young fellows, sow some wild oats ; and they are 
generally not reproved, but rather commended for 
it : — you girls cannot be entirely ignorant ot this 
fact. 

Ger. No we are not, — but each one of us thinks 
of it, foolishly I admit, as only applying to other 
girls' fellows. (Coz'crs face with hands) Oh my I — 

Otis, (despairingly.) Then break off our engage- 
ment, dear ! 



FOIBLES 



25 



Ger. No, I can't do that : (ardently) I love you ! 
(ambitiously.) and then you are the son ot a great 
man. 

Otis. Ah, that word 'great' again — your positive 
idolatry for the great ; and your hope of having 
descended from tliem ; really, dear, you can't deny 
that these are your foibles: — which is it that at- 
tracts you most — myself, or my father's greatness? 

Ger. (lovinglv.) Don't talk non.sense, dear. 

Otis. Nonsense ? Why when I said that real love 
takes the bit in its teeth, and weds despite all ob- 
stacles — you replied that fadier would disown me, 
and I would cease to possess his reflected greatness. 

Ger. Well, I put you off with that reason, (and 
greatness is dear to me, I admit; but not vital, for 
I would wed you great or humble.) 

Otis. Isn't that delicious! 

Ger. And I left the vital reason unsaid, (for 
fear of making you sad, though Edward says you 
should be told it) : my father — though believing the 
poet and your father dtead wrong — had exacted a 
promise from Edward and myself, that neither of 
us would wed, in defiance of either parent. 

Otis, (surprised.) Yon don'i szy\— {With fer- 
vor) Mr. S taker may not be great, but he has some- 
thing still better — honor. {Ardently.) And) I love 
you dear— and respect Edward — still more, for 
keeping faith with your father. 

Ger. {gratified.) Oh tliank you ever so much for 
saying that of father, and us. 

Otis. That promise e.xplains why Edward and 
Violet, too, have refrained from doing anything. 

Ger. Of course.— But for it, they would probably 
wed': as Violet feels sure that her father will never 
relent. 

Otis, {after a pause.) Oh, another thing, Ger- 
trude. 

Ger. What is it, Otis. 

Otis. How in the world did you ever contract 
the habit of flirting? 

Ger. {with mock surprise.) Flirting! What 
ever made you speak of that — and do I flirt ? 

Otis, {mock solemnity). You do^ — {accusing 
finger) and you know you do. 

Ger. (cornered). But er — I didn't know that 
you knew it. 

Otis, (smiling.) Because you have done it 
so slyly, eh? 

Ger. (reluctantly.) Y-yes. 

Otis. It is surprising in you. 

Ger. Why so? 

Otis. Because it is in such striking contrast 
to your other characteristics. 

Ger. Oftentimes, that peculiarity, is of the very 
essence of a foible. 

Otis. Ah, then you do feel it is a weakness? 

Ger. Of course I do. 

Otis. Well, that is encouraging. 

Ger. But I may be excused a little — as the 
foible of flirting is quite common with my sex. 
Besides, I am very choice of my flirtations. 



Otis. (unncing). I should say so — never 
with anyone but some handsome and dashing 
young fellow. 

Ger. (solicitously.) Dear, would you rather 
that I would give up flirting? 

Otis. Well, dear, — I was never awful bad ; 
but I want to be better: good clean through — if I 
can — for your sake:— to do that I need your help, 
— and flirting would be a hindrance. 

Ger. (impulsively.) Then I'll try to give it 
up-^I say try, because foibles, once they are al- 
lowed to get a hold on us, are not easily shaken 
off, and therefore I may fail — at least for a while. 

Otis. Oh, kind promise — and sweet sincerity, 
for I too may fail — at least awhile; I realize that. 

Ger. (lovingly.) And) if we do fail, we'll 
keep on striving — not unforbearing but forbear- 
ing towards each other ; remembering the biblical 
saying, that — 

Otis, (quoting.) "There is none perfect." 

Ger. (finishing quotation.) "No, not one." 

Re-enter Edward and Violet, rear. 

Otis & Ger. (greeting)- Ah, Edward and 
Violet ! 

Edw. & Vio. (greeting). How-dy, Otis and 
Gertrude ! 

Vio. We heard you coming, and went on the 
balcony so as to give you a chance to spoon. 

Ger. Ha, ha, you are very considerate. 

Edw. I say. Sport, what have you been doing late- 
ly in stocks? 

Otis, (wincing). Losing money— as usual. 

Edw. Why don't you do as father did? 

Otis. I have often wondered how he made his, 
but delicacy forbids the asking. 

Edw. Why he made it in "Mythical Oil." 

Otis. Ah, Mythical Oil, eh? 

Edw. Then you have heard of the stock? 

Otis. Certainly. A stock well named, for its 
boasted oil-wells were nothing but a myth ; it had no 
real value, only a stock-market value ; some of 
father's board of directors, and their cronies, 
bought it at top prices and got badly stung. 

Edw. Ah, they diid, eh? — Well about a year ago 
a clerk in the dry goods store where father was then 
working, advised him to buy the stock; which was 
then selling at only 20 cents a .share ; so he put one 
thousand dollars in it, and of course got for it 5000 
shares- The craze soon began and the stock went 
soaring— in six months he was able to sell it out 
at the fabulous price of three hundred dollars a 
share. 

Otis. Is it possible ? I know that it went there ; 
even a bit higher — and that's when the persons I 
.spoke of bought it. 

Edw. So you see that his investment of one thou- 
sand brought him the snug fortune of a million and 
a half. 

Ger. & Vio. Goodness gracious ! 

Otis. That was surely some profit. 



26 



FOIBLES 



Edw. Come, let's sit on the ioia.— (mnking) 
you know, Otis. 

Otis, (winking). Yes, I know. 

Ger. & Vio. (winking.) And, we know. 

(They sit, and each fellow instinctively puts arm 
around his girl, keeping it there). 

Edw. (intensely satisfied.) Oh I wish that sup- 
per time was not so near. 

Otis, (intensely satisfied). Yes, this is better 
than eating. 

Edw. (jokingly.) Let's go without supper. 

Otis, (jokingly.) All right. 

Ger. & Vio. (jokingly.) Go without supper — 
well we guess not. 

Vio. (continuing.) For we may get something 
for our supper's dessert, that (pouting) we seem un- 
likely to get here. 

Ger. (concluding.) It is only an imitation; 
(pouting) but it is better than none : that particular 
kind of confection, that all girls are so fond of. 

Edw. & Otis, (catching on.) You mean — kisses: 
oh get on to THAT HINT. 

(Each fellow kisses his girl several times, with 
comical interludes between times). 

Otis. Now, that we have had an exercise in 
osculation — 

Vio. (wonderingly) . Osculation? — what in the 
world is that? 

All. (laughing.) Why, kissing: of course. 

Otis. I will give you a chance to exercise your 
brains — if you have any. 

All. (mock dignity.) If we have any, — what 
a nerve. 

Otis. To begin, you are aware that there are 
many kind of foibles ; even including — the going to 
excess, in something that is admirable in itself ? 

All. Of course we are. 

Otis. You are also aware of the great preva- 
lency of foibles among persons of all age.^? 

All. Certainly- 

Otis. Now, young ladies, have five foibles, that 
are peculiarly their own. 

Ger. & Vio. (miffed) Oh have they. 

Otis. Yes, and they have indulged them, for so 
many centuries, and with such passion, that they 
have become bywords. 

Ger. (retorting.) Well, young gentlemen, have 
five foibles, that are peculiarly their own. 

Otis. & Edw. (miffed.) Oh have they. 

Ger. Yes, and they have indulged them, for so 
many centuries, and with such excess, that they have 
become bywords. 

Edw. Go ahead, Otis, — the young gentlemen ex- 
ercise comes afterwards. 

Otis. Well, then — what is young girls' chief est 
foible? 

Ger. & Vio. (flay fully.) Well you know it 
all— what is it, smart-y. 

Otis. Why— love, — of course. 



Ger. & Vio. Ha, ha — love, eh? well young men 
are not so jjerfect in that respect. 

Otis. What is their next chiefest one? 

Ger. & Vio. Oh, we give it up. 

Edw. Come, use your wits, girls. 

Ger. & Vio. The subject is not worth it. 

Otis. The answer is — beauty. 

Ger. & Vio. Ha, ha — beauty, eh? well young 
men like to have us beautiful, too. 

Edw. To be beautiful — is really young girls' 
chiefest : but only ranks second because the under- 
lying cause of their craze for beauty, is that they 
may be loved and may love. 

Ger. & Vio. Oh, listen to that — finish it up, Otis ; 
so that we can get back at him — and you, too. 

Otis. Next, is — vanity. 

Ger. & Vio. Ah, vanity. 

Otis. And all that the word signifies, when ap- 
plied in this connection. — Next is jealousy. 

Ger. & Vio. Ah, jealousy ; the shadow of love.— 
And the fifth, and last ? 

Otis. Is — envy. 

Ger. & Vio. Ah, envy — we are envious of each 
other's beaux, and looks, and dress, etc. I presume. 

Edw. Exactly. 

Otis. To conclude — these frailties, spring one 
from another: and eventually become inextricably 
blended together. 

Ger. & Vio. Is that all, smarty? 

Otis. Yes, — and I hope there is no ill feeling. 

Edw. So do I. 

Ger. & Vio. Ill feeling? Why you meant it play- 
fully; and we took it that way. (Otis and Edw. re- 
place arms around girls; which were taken away 
shortly before) 

Ger. (smiling.) Now — what is yoiuig men's 
chiefest foible? 

Otis. & Edw. (confused). Havn't the least idea. 

Ger. Why — himself, — of course. 

Otis. & Edw. Ha, ha — himself, eh? well you cer- 
tainly are getting back at us. 

Ger. What is their next chiefest one? 

Otis. & Edw. (thinking). Perhaps — young la- 
dies? 

Ger. No, — the answer is — sport. 

Otis. & Edw. Ha, ha, sport, eh? 

Vio. And all that the word signifies when applied 
to young men. 

Otis. & Edw. Well, go on ; let us know the other 
three. 

Ger. Next, is — clothing. 

Otis. & Edw. Clothing, — ha, ha. 

Ger- Next — mashing. 

Otis. & Edw. Mashing, — ha, ha, ha. 

Ger. 'Next— tobacco. 

Otis. & Edw. Yes.tobacco.— ha, ha, ha. 
(Miss Law re-enters, right: she makes gestures of 
indignation at sight of lovers, and retires unseen.) 

Vio. To conclude — These frailties, spring one 
from another : and eventually become inextricably 
blended together. (General laughter.) 



FOIBLES 



27 



Edw. Otis, let's repeat the osculatory exercise. 
Otis. All right, Edward. 

(Despite simulated opposition, each fellow kisses 
his girl a fezv times, at intervals: during which, 
re-enter Mr. & Mrs. Pullwool, Mr. & Mrs. Bacon, 
Miss Law, and all the others, right). 

Pull. & Bac. {astounded and angered.) Hah! 
what unseemly love-making sight is this? 

(The lovers arise, dismayed : Enter, left, Mrs. S ta- 
ker, Harold, and Hazel; they are startled by the 
scene.) 

Many, (astonished and displeased.) A regular 
hugging and kissing match ! Ha, ha, ha. 

Pull. & Bac. (furiously.) Yes, — and it is be- 
tween the children of two illustrious men — as we 
are: and the children of a nonentity — as Staker is! 

Edw. & Ger. (spiritedly.) Our father is no 
nonentity I 

Mrs. Stak. (proudly). And their mother is de- 
scended from a king! 

Many. Ah, the Robert Bruce gag, again — ha, ha. 

Mrs Pull. & Mrs Bac. (furiously.) Oh, is not 
the tempting of our dear ones, into such scandalous 
conduct, a perfect outrage upon us, their mothers! 
and upon their fathers, too! 

Mrs. Pull, (continuing). Who intend our dear 
ones to wed with only their equals in inherited great- 
ness. 

Mrs Bac. (concluding.) Yes, — and above all, 
not to wed into the family of a cheap skate like 
Staker. 

Edw. (hotly.) Father is a cheap skate, eli? 
(Exercising arm.) You are lucky, to be a woman. 

Males, (angrily.) Isn't it a perfect outrage, 
also, upon us — the other great men on the block ; 
and upon our families ! 

Miss Law. (zcith a chuckle.) Now you know 
why I beckoned to you all to come here, as I saw you 
leaving the parlor for your homes : I witnessed the 
shameful sight, looking for brother : — it is mean to 
play telltale; but it seemed my duty. 

Many, (approvingly.) You deserve our hearty 
thanks ! 

Pull. & Bac. (to Otis and Violet.) Come, now, 
what does this mean ? 

Vio. (timidly.) As we are all of good repute — 

Otis, (helping her.) It cannot mean but one 
thing — we are engaged. 

Pull. & Bac. (amazed and enraged.) Engaged! 

Many, (derisively.) Engaged! Ha, ha, ha. 

ViO. (coyly.) Yes, both of us: Otis to Gert- 
rude; and (blushing) myself to Edward. 

Pull. (fiercely.) Then — as seemed evident 
from the first, you have been meeting here right 
along ? 

Bac. (fiercely.) And this has been a regular 
performance ? 

Otis. & Vio. (haltingly.) Y-yes. 

Bac. (vehemently.) Isn't it a damned — excuse 
me — a deuce of a shame ! 



Pull, (to Staker, angrily.) I dislike slang, 
Staker ; but no other word would be quite as apropos, 
as what Mrs Bacon termed you— yes, you ARE a 
cheap skate — ( Edward starts threateningly towards 
Pulhvool, but is held by Violet) for you try to in- 
veigle our children into a marriage with your chil- 
dren; and set your reception room apart for that 
purpose. 

Stak. (aroused.) Thinking your opposition 
both foolish and unnatural, I told my children that 
they might keep company with your children, pro- 
vided they didn't marry without parental consent — 
and if you don't like it, you can both — and all the 
rest, for that matter — go to the devil! (Staker joins 
his family at left : the lovers remain in front of sofa 
at center :all others are grouped at right.) 

Mrs. Stak. (hotly) Yes,— that is just what 
you can all do! 

Har. (advancing.) And that is just what you 
WILL all do ! 

Mrs Post, (rebukingly.) How do you know? 

Har. How do 1 know ? why I know almost every- 
thing — boys know more than men. (Goes back.) 

Many. Ha, ha — there are many self-conceited 
youths; and he is one of that kind. 

Mir. (to group). Staker is angry, now ; and may 
sitop payment of our checks at the bank : and I need 
a new robe: — let's go and give him some taffy. 

Many. Whew, never thought of that— we must 
pacify him; let the ladies do the talking. (The 
group goes to the Stakers). 

Miss Law. (humbly). Dear Mrs. Staker, Har- 
old and Hazel, we have come to beg your pardon. 

Many. Yes, — to beg your forgiveness. 

Mrs. Stak. (warmly). Which is granted. (Har- 
old and Hazel nod assent). 

Mrs. Pull. Dear Mr. Staker, we lost our heads 
entirely: (Staker bows.) It would indeed be an 
honor for Otis to wed Gertrude. 

Stak. Ah ! 

Mrs. Bac. It would indeed be all to the merry, 
to have Violet hitch up with Edward. 

Stak. Ah! Ah! 

Mrs. Knob. And nothing in the world would 
please the rest of the tenants quite so well. 

Stak. Ah! Ah! Ah! 

Mrs. Pull. But, you realize our position? 

Mrs. Bac. You must surely tumble to what we 
are up against? 

Mrs. Knob. In short, you see that it is utterly 
impossible! 

Pull. & Bac. Oh, that it were possible ! Nothing 
would delight us more ! 

Many. Nothing would delight us more! 

Stak. Many, many thanks, dear friends! 

Males, (anxiously.) We trust that this unpleas- 
ant incident, won't make any difference with the 
payment of our checks. 

Stak. (positively). Why not at all, gentlemen. 

Males, (relieved). Oh, thank you, sir. 



28 



FOIBLES 



Stak. Ladies and gentlemen, I begin to under- 
stand, and to respect, your attitude in regard to 
your children. {Shoxvs emotion) Excuse me — I 
must go apart a moment. (Goes apart, and muses 
aloud) In spite of their foibles— they are splendid 
people at heart! It begins to look as though I did 
them wrong, to allow my children to go on with a 
courtship. (Sadly) And they love, and never can 
wed; (for all my fond hopes that the other parents 
might give in, are now seen to have been illusive) : 
and the only thing to cure love, is a separation, — so 
that the only merciful thing to do, is to quit this 
house: — ^but how can I overcome Abagail and Ger- 
trude's sure objection? — ah, that little plan, that I 
was pondering over — yes, Fll put that in operation 
even though it is deception. I hate to resort to it — 
but the future peace of mind of Edward and Ger- 
trude is at stake. 

Many. Come Staker, what the deuce are you 
stewmg about? 

Stak. (rejoins group.) It is over now — but I 
have a bit of bad news, that I am loath to impart 
to you— I give up this house, at the end of the 
month, about a week hence. 

Many. The devil you say ! going to quit us. 

Mrs Stak. What nonsense, — you will do noth- 
ing of the kind — we shall stay with the great, no 
matter what we have to submit to. 

Stak. Well then we will remain — but you must 
pay the bills ; for I have lost all my money. 

Many', (excitedly) You have lost all your mon- 
ey — ! 

Stak. Yes, in unfortunarte speculations in stock.5. 

Males. What the devil made you go anu lose 
all your money, when you know that we are always 
short — and how about these checks? (Thy hold 
up checks) 

Stak. Those checks will be paid — and they leave 
me practically penniless. 

Males, (jubilantly) Ah, they will be paid,— 
that's good! (Replace checks in pockets) 

Mrs. Stak. (zvildly). Then you have really lost 
your money ! and we will really have to go back 
to ordinary people ; and to prosy things ! Oh why 
did you speculate!! (After a pause) But I should 
not, must not, blame you, — you need my help and 
sympathy, now! (Embraces him). 

Har. & Haz. (lovingly.) Dear father — we don't 
care much for money, but we're awful sorry for 
you, and mamma! 

Several. We are deeply moved by your mis- 
fortune, Mr. Staker! 

Others. We tender you our heartfelt sympathy! 

Several. Having done that, we are obliged to 
depart. 

Others. For to remain here longer, now,would 
be to belittle ourselves. 

Several. Our past associaition, with a man like 
yourself, not noted, nor great— even though {possess- 
ing wealth — was unpardonable. 

Others. Having lost even the wealth, any fur- 



ther association with you would be unspeakable. 
Stak. (spunkily.) Just as you please, 
Mrs Stak. (spunkily.) Yes,— while we regret 
the loss of you exceedingly — we never force our- 
selves on anybody. 

(The group moves torvards right door) 

Mr. & Mr=. Eac. Come, Violet. 

Mr. & Mrs. Pull. Come, Otis. 

Vio. & Otis. Yes, — just a minute. 

Pull. & Bac. (sternly.) Hurry up,— no more 
nonsense, you understand. 

Vio. Good-bye, Edward ! 

Otis. Good-bye, Gertrude! (Each pair takes 
hands). 

Edvv, & Ger. Good-bye. (Each pair is loath to 
part). 

Kil. Ah, that is a pretty sight! and stirs my 
heart ! 1 am as much a sticker for greatness as any 
of you ; but let's strain a point, in their case, won't 
you ? You will find it hard to get such a son-in-law, 
and daughter-in-law, even among the great : — Come 
Messrs Pullwool and Bacon, let them be happy ! 

Mrs Pull. & Mrs Bac. Oh keep quiet doctor; 
you are always butting in. 

Pull. & Bac. (to I oz'ers). Come, finish your scene 
— and finish it quickly. Don't say good-bye — but 
farewell : for this is a parting forever. 

Lovers. Forever — ! Oh, no, no! (Each pair 
springs to an embrace.) 

Several. Oh look at that disgraceful sight! 

Others. Such shameful disobedience! 

Pull. & Bag. (advancing threateningly, follow- 
ed by the rci-f). Come, break away there, at once! 

Lovers, (defiantly). No, — we will get married, 
in spite of you all ! True love laughs at impedi- 
ments ! 

Pull. &Bac. (mockingly.) Oh you will, will you? 

Pull, (continuing). Otis, I command you to 
leave that girl ! 

Bac. (continuing). Violet, I command you to 
leave thai youth ! 

Otis, (to his father).! regret to have to decline— 
I would covet your approval of our marrying— but 
it is not indispensible, as I am more than of age. 

Pull, (dumbfounded) .What — a revolt, eh! you 
obstinate scamp. 

\'io. (to her father). And. I regret to have to 
decline — I would covet your approval to our marry- 
ing — but it is not indispensible, as I am just of 
age. 

Bac. (dumbfoinidcd.) What — ! you willful hussy. 

Otis. Moreover, both couples would have wed. 
ere this ; but for Edward and Gertrude's strict ad- 
herance. in spite of our entreaties to the contrary, 
to the promise made to their father — not to wed 
without Mr Bacon's, and your consent. 

Pu'LL. & Bac. Hah, what an outrageous confes- 
sion ! 

Edw. & Ger. (firmly.) Which promise, we now 
cast to the winds. 



FOIBLES 



29 



Stak. (reproachfully.) What — break your prom- 
ise to me, my children ! 

Edw. & Ger. (doggedly.) Yes,— and we are very 
loath to do so;— but it is an obstacle, (in fact, the 
only one — as we are both over age,) to our union. 

Mrs. Stak. (agitated.) My dear children, you 
will have to forget each other, out of respect to 
these fond parents' wishes, and also out of respect 
to the solemn promise made to your father — or else 
you will bring me in sorrow to the grave ! 

Edw. & Ger. (visibly affected.) Dear mother! 

Mrs. Pull, (agitated.) And Otis, you will 
bring me in sorrow to the grave! 

Otis, (visibly affected.) Dear mother! 

Mrs. Bac. (agitated.) And Violet, while I per- 
haps am too robust to be hurt physically, you will 
bring me in sorow into the ranks of the'dead one.<' 
socially ! 

Vio. (visibly affected.) Dear mother! 

Pull. Bac. & Stak. (pleadingly.) What are 
you going to do, in answer to your dear mothers' 
beseechmgs ? 

Lovers, (fervently.) Why, we are going to sac- 
rifice ourselves on the altar of filial duty ! We give 
each other up. 



(The lovers go and embrace their respective 
mothers) 

Many, (approvingly.) Ah, the young people 
have acted nobly! And are much to be com- 
mended. 

Several. Now, let's go. 

Others. \'ery well. (Thcv start for door at 
right) 

Mrs. Bac. (casually.) Violet, your skirt, is bad- 
ly ripped. 

Vio. Yes, — I tore it when I ran into Edward's 
arms — that seems to signify that I did wrong: 
that I took an important step without due delibera- 
tion. 

^L\NV- Ha, ha, ha. 

( The lovers make forlorn arm motions at each 
other, with sorrowful looks, in farewell; than sud- 
denly run together again in an embrace — while 
the rest, aghast, look on — then break away des- 
pairingly, and leave each other.) 

Many, (to Stakcrs.) Ta! Ta!— 
Stakers. Good-bye! 

(Exeunt all but Stakcrs, right) 



ACT III 



Scene — The Front Lawn, with the house-fronts in 

the background, again. 

(Discovered) Janitress and Eliza. 

Jan. (musingly.) Ah, Eliza, my heart goes back 
to the good old palmy days. 

Eliza, (mirthfully.) What, again? 

Jan. a janitress'work, is never done, — it is thi: 
Staker house now that will need fixing up ; as they 
quit it in a few minutes. 

Eliz.'V. He lost all his money — poor man ! 

Jan. Yes, — and Edward lost his Violet, and Ger- 
trude lost her Otis — poor lovers! 

Eliza. Sundered by stuck-up parents, — it is the 
talk of the block. 

Jan. It is evident that Hazel and Noel, are sweet 
on each other ; and this leaving, will end their dream 
— but I guess it would have ended, anyway, when 
Noel's father got on to it ; as he is stuck-up like the 
rest. 

Eliza. Very sad, all around ! Very sad, also, in 
the case of my employer's daughter, Ruth, — and her 
Alexander: (poor chits! it is now two weeks, they 
have been lying in the hospital;) whose love was 
sundered, just because of their parents' enmity. 

Jan. Alas, on being caught together, in the 
Staker home, by their parents, they were, I am told, 
most unnaturally berated. 

Eliza. And it was only one week afterwards, 
that their illness began — it seemed almost like a visi- 
tation, on their parents' unchristian feud. 



Jan. And dangerously ill, too: or doctor Killem 
would not have ordered their immediate removal 
to the hospital, where he is surgeon. — Thank good- 
ness, they are better now, I believe. 

Eliza. Yes, almost well. 

Jan. By the bye. while we are on this subject — • 
there is Miss Law : — it is said, and it so looks, that 
she cherishes a love — an unrequited love — for doctor 
Killem. 

Eliza. (sadly.) Poor woman I can .sympa- 
thize with her! For I (blushing) love Pierre! and 
the scamp unaccountably vanished. 

Jan. Ah dear, you do love Pierre,— the doctor's 
farmer chef. I thought you did. — (Mournfully) 
Well, the love afifairs of this block seem to be so in- 
extricably tangled, that not even fate itself can ever 
untangle them ! 

Eliza, (abrut'tly.) Ah, here comes a uniform! I 
must do a little flirting. 

Jan. (mirthfully.) What, again? 

Elista. Ha, Ha. you got back at me. 

Jan. The copper and you will have a free field — 
for I have to go in i.h>- S'akcr house. 

Eliza. Oh. don't leave (;n that account. 

Jan. Not at all, — I am past due. (E.vit into 
basement of second house.) 

Enter Policeman, right. 

Pol. (twirling his club gracefully.) Ah there, 
birdie ! 

Eliza. Birdie — eh ? Now don't spring any more 
of that sort of stufT, or birdie will fly away. 



30 



FOIBLES 



Pol. Then I will fly after you. 

Eliza. The imagery is absurd, applied to you. 

Pol. Not at all, — for I am one of the fly cops. 

Eliza. Ah, ha, ha ; that's good — but rather far- 
fetched!, for that term is applied only to detectives 
in citizens clothing. 

Pol. (uHth a twinkle.) Did you ever see me be- 
fore? 

Eliza, {puzzled.) Well, you look somehow 
familiar : — 'but I guess not : for you are new on this 
beat, ain't you? 

Pol. This ain't my beat ; that is down town : I 
only room near here. I go on duty at ten this morn- 
ing, {looks at watch) and it is now nine fifteen. I 
am new on the force, however ; only two days ago, 
I became one of the finest. 

Eliza. One of the finest, —why, you are THE 
FINEST of the finest, — at least, that I ever saw. 

Pol. {highly elated.) Oh, delicious praise!— and 
you are the fairest of the fairest, — at least, that 
I ever saw. 

Eliza, {highly elated.) Oh, delicious praise! 

Pol. {ardently.) I love you! Will you marry me? 

Eliza, {pleased but dismayed.) Oh, this is very 
very sudden! {Irresolutely.) I scarcely know what 
reply to make: {blushing) but it really seems almost 
like a case of love at first sight. 

Pol. {an.rionsly.) Come, — I am alternating be- 
tween hope and fear. 

Eliza, {midecided.) Shall I or shall I not?— 
{Finally, %vith abandon) Yes, I accept your gra- 
cious off'er I ( They embrace. ) 

Pol. {joyously.) Thanks — my dear one! We will 
be wed, this very night. 

Eliza, {breaking away.) No, no, I am mad! what 
dreadful act was I about committing, — there's 
Pierre ! I love him devotedly ; and could never be 
happy without him. 

Pol. Hah, you love another ! 

Eliza. Yes,— a fine fellow; a chef, formerly 
employed on this block. He loved me truly ; but 
I scorned him just because I disliked the white- 
apron that he wore, and doated on wearing. 

Pol. {zmth a twinkle.) Ah, a white-apron, eh. 

Eliza, {sadly.) He vanished suddenly about one 
month ago: {tearfully) but if he would only come 
back— and love me — I am sure that I could endure 
{with a wry face) even that apron. 

Pol. {amused.) Ha, ha. — Then you don't love 
me. 

Eliza. Well, I can't truthfully say exactly that: 
there's a strange feeling about my heart for you 
— Oh, if Pierre and yourself, only could be made 
over into one. 

Pol. Ha, ha, a sort of composite man, eh. 

Eliza, {puzzled.) What is that? 

Pol. Why, a man, possessing one shape, but two 
distinct personalities. 

Eliza. Exactly, — ^that's what I meant. 

Pol. {confidently.) Perhaps your wish may be 
gratified. 



EiizA. {incredulously.) Oh, no, — that is impos- 
sible. 

Pol. Well, it seems to be. — Now, I will be 
going. 

Eliza. Good-bye. 

Pol. Good-bye. {Exit left: Eliza, sits on bench, 
facing opposite.) 

Eliza. Oh how I miss him ! now that he is gone. 

Re-enter Policeman, zn-ith a chef's zfhite-apron 
on, extending from neck to feet. 

Pol. {taking off false mustache.) Eliza, here is 
your composite man. 

Eliza, {amazed and delighted.) Pierre! 

Pierre, {exultingly .) Yes, it is I. — {Lovingly) 
My darling — you ju5t told the policeman that you 
loved Pierre; won't you now tell that to Pierre, 
himself ? 

Eliza, {coyly.) No, no, I won't, — but I will 
tell Pierre, that — I love the policeman ! 

Pierre. Ha, ha — that virill answer. — {Embraces 
her) My sweet Eliza! 

Eliza, {merrily.) Pierre, you brought the false 
mustache, and your long white-apron along, on pur- 
pose to play this trick upon me. 

Pierre, {merrily.) Yes, my dear. {Takes off 
apron and throivs it down) 

EuzA. That's right, dear ; now that you have had 
your little sport with it, throw the horrid thing 
away:— oh, you look handsome in a uniform! 

Pierre, {tickled.) I do, eli? — 

Eliza. Dear, what ever made you think of becom- 
ing a policeman? 

Pierre. Solely, on the hope of winning you. 

Eliza. Ha, ha, you knew that I was crazy tor 
uniforms. {Archly) I k-new you went on, to win 
me ; but I wanted the joy of hearing you say so. 

Pierre, {mock reproof.) You rogue. — Being 
eager to .show myself, in uniform, to you. and hope- 
ful but anxious, of the outcome: (after a weary 
month of waiting, before I was appointed) : I came 
here from my nearby room, and waited for you, — 
with the present delightful result! 

Eliza. Delightful, indeed! 

Pierre. My dear — it is pretty tough, to leave 
v-ou now ; but my time is up. 

Eliza. And you musn't be late on duty. 

Pierre, {embracing her.) Good-bye! 

Eliza. Good-bye ! 

Pierre, {leaving.) I will see you to-night to 
arrange about our wedding. 

Eliza, {snapping.) Oh, will you? {Relenting) 
Yes, call at the Minister's basement. 

Pierre. All right, dear. {Exit, left; Eliza goes 
happily skipping into basement of first house) 

Pierre, {returning.) Perhaps Eliza, after we 
are wed, will let me wear this, {picks up apron) 
when I help her with the cooking, — I couldn't possi- 
bly give up the wearing of white-aprons, altogether. 

{Exit left.) 



FOIBLES 



31 



Enter Dauber, and his son {Bobbie,) left. 

Daub. Well Bobbie, how are you enjoying our 
little walk about the lawn? 

Bob. Oh, I like's it, papa — but I'.^ hungry ; me 
wants a piece of bread and butter. 

Daub, (laughing.) Why, you just had a piece 
before you left the house. 

Bqb. {fretfully.) Me knows 'dat — but I want 
more. 

Daub, {coaxingly.) More will not be good for 
you, my child, — in fact, will do you harm. 

Bob. Well, I wants it, anyway. 

Daub, {resignedly.) Papa knew from sad expe- 
rience that you would, so he brought some along. 
{Produces a large slice of buttered bread and begins 
to remove the wrapper.) 

Bob. {on nettles.) Oh, hurry up, papa. 

Daub, {handing.) There — pitch in to it. 

Bob. {devouring.) Oh my, it is good! 

Daub. Come, what do you say for it ? 

Bob. {ivith mouth full.) Thank you! 

Daub. Look at him eat, — alas, even in childhood, 
we begin to take on weaknesses or failings : either to 
do things that we should not do ; or to do, unnatur- 
ally, things that we should do. His insatiable ap- 
petite for bread and butter, is a childish foible. — 
But then I have my foibles, also: and my late wife, 
had hers — an abnormal liking for the opposite sex. 
In her case, unfortunately, the weakness or frailly, 
degenerated into evil, resulting in divorce. Let me 
think ? yes, that sad event was about two years ago 
— after only three years of wedlock : and I, at 
forty am left wifeless ; with a four-year child. The 
poet says : "O, frailty, thy name is — woman !" Sore 
though I be, I can't accept that philosophy. — for 
there are multitudes of good women ; and good men, 
too : even though they do possess, many of them, 
this abnormal liking for the opposite sex: this 
frailty foible : — how many a woman's all absorbing 
idea, is men: how many a man's all absorbing idea, 
is zvomen. — Perhaps I ought to give the child 
a stepmother, — but my sad experience makes me 
chary of taking another chance. 

Bob. {ruefully.) It is all gone a'ready, papa 
— it didn't last very long. 

Daub. {laughing.) Well Bobbie, that is often 
the way with the good things of life. 

Bob. {musingly.) But, sour-balls — they last 
almost too long. 

Daub, {smiling.) They are pretty hard. — {look- 
ing left) As I live, there stand the Minister and the 
Soldier, a'quarreling, as usual, — isn't it a damned 
shame ! All about nonsense : about each's taking 
away the other's bread and butter. 

Bob. Bread and butter — where is it? 

Daub, {laughing.) I have none, — I only spoke 
of it indirectly. 

Bob. {puzzled.) Me dunno what 'dat means. 
Daub, {turning away.) I must quench his aroused 
curiosity, even with an illogical answer. {Turning 



to the expectant Bobbie) See, Bobbie — I strike at 
your nose, and hit it. {He does and Bobbie laughs.) 
That blow went directly : or straight to the mark. — 
Now, I strike at your nose, and miss it. {He does 
and Bobbie laughs, louder.)That blow went— in- 
directly, or not straight to the mark. 

Bob. {tickled.) Oh I see papa; directly means 
'dat I gets it — and indirectly, means 'dat I don't 
gets it 

Daub. Ha, ha, exactly — the bread and butter. 

Enter Knoblock, in uniform, and Postem, in 
surplice, left : they are intent on a quarrel; and 
don't notice Dauber; zvho overhears their talk, with 
a grim smile. 

Knob, {angrily.) Well, have you quarreled, all 
that you want to? 

Post, (angrily.) Have you quarreled, all that 
you want to? 

Knob. No — ^there's another thing, Postem : is not 
twice a week often enough to hold canting revi- 
vals, without ringing in this extra one that you just 
held? 

Post. What is that your business ? 

Knob. Why, it puts me to trouble. 

Post. Nonsense, — how so? 

Knob. When I am not there, (I am told), you 
preach peace: when I am there, you don't dare do 
it for fear of being calkd down. 

Post, {spiritedly.) I am a pacifist, sir: and noth- 
ing shall deter me, on any occasion, from the ad- 
vocacy of the blessings of peace. 

Knob, {sneeringly.) I am not a coward, but a 
fighter, sir ; and nothing shall deter me, on any oc- 
casion, from the advocacy of the glories of war. 

Post. The world can do without you soldiers, 
when inen get better. 

Knob. Never, sir! Pomp and pageantry, 
bravery and fortitude, will always be lundamentals. 

Post. Well, at least, you will be giving a part 
of your time, to clothes-making; or some other use- 
ful occupation. 

Knob. The world can do without you ministers, 
when men get better. 

Post. Never, sir! Worship of God, and teaching 
of His holy word, will always be fundamentals. 

Knob. Well, at least, you will be giving a part 
of your time, to shoemaking; or some other useful 
occupation. 

Daub, {joining them.) Ha. ha, the roaring 
soldierly lion, and the gentle ministerial lamb, are 
quarreling yet ; in spite of the biblical prophecy that 
the lion and the lamb would lie down together. 

Post, {testily.) Don't butt in. Dauber. 

Knob, {testily-) Or, I will butt you out. 

Daub, {incensed.) The h-ll you say. 

Post. Oh, cut out that cussing foible, Dauber : 
don't be an imitator, (everybody swears, nowa- 
days), be an individualist. 

Daub. That's mighty good advice — and I might 
give you some, regarding your unchristian hatred of 
Knoblock. 



32 



FOIBLES 



Post. Should I not hate him who hates peace? I 
count him an enemy. But my hatred is only that 
perfect hatred, with which the psalmist hated. 

Knob- {to Dauber, pointing at Postein.) 
Should I not hate him who hates war ? I count him 
an enemy. But my hatred is only that imperfect 
hatred, with which an up-to-date man hates. 

Daub, (pleadingly.) Have you forgotten, gentle- 
men, that only two weeks ago.Ruth and Alexander 
were both taken dangerously ill ? 

Knob. But, they are almost well, now. 

Post. In fact, doctor Killem has gone to the 
hospital, to arrange for their home return. 

Daub. Then, show your gratitude to a kind 
providence, by becoming friends. 

Knob, {zvith aversion.) Not I, indeed! 

Post, {ivith aversion.) Not I, indeed! 

Daub. Be prepared, then, for a worse blow. 

Knob. & Post. Ha, ha,^:hat's nonsensical. 

Daub. Ah, here come the rest of the tenants out 
from their respective houses, to bid the Stakers 
good-bye — as we all decided upon last night. 

Knob, {looking at watch.) Yes, it is the ap- 
pointed time. 

Enter Mr & Mrs Bacon a^id Violet, right; then Mr 
& Mrs Pullwool and Otis, left; then Mr & Miss 
Law and Noel, right; then Mrs Knoblock. right; 
then Mr Mir.\beau, in uniform., left ; then Mrs Pos- 
TEM, front front-door of first house: the assembling 
is rapid, and is accompanied by greetings of ivords 
or nods. 

Pull. Now, ladies and gentlemen, that we have 
all exchanged our good-morning greetings, with 
each other — I will give to you,( while we are await- 
ing the arrival of Mr Staker and family), some 
information on a subject that you are all deeply in- 
terested in. 

Many. Oh yes : The drive ! the drive ! 

Pull. Yes, the great drive for funds, by the 
Home and Foreign Money-aid and Moral-uplift So- 
ciety: (of which I have the honor to be President.) 
We met, as you remember, at Mr Staker's parlors, 
three weeks ago, to portion out your parts, gentle- 
man, in the drive. And let me say right here, that, 
you all played your parts — (to use a trite expres- 
sion) — to the queen's taste: for which service the 
society, by me, thanks you gratefully ! 

Many. Bravo! Bravo! 

Pull. One week thereafter, the drive, (an eight 
day one.) took place: and at the eight days' end; 
was extended for three days, by request. 

Law. (yati'ning loudly and ntcirdly.) By re- 
quest — of yourself, and your dummy board of di- 
rectors ; and not of the public. 

Several. (whom yawn had annoyed.) Just 
to think of a senator making a noise like that. And 
you didn't have to blurt out that sarcasm, about a 
thing we all knew. 

Pull, (disoncerted by Law, but now cool.) 
The sum asked for, was twenty millions: but our 
canvassers, public speakers, and publicity bureau. 



presented such a horribly excruciating picture, of 
the sufferings and sorrows, sought to be ministered 
unto, that, the snug sum of twenty five million 
dollars, net ; was what the public was touched for. 

Several, (laughing.) You shouldn't have used 
the word touched. 

Bac. Because, it is not alone a nice man's poetic 
way of expressing, moved at heart : but it is also 
a tricky man's slang way of expressing, bam- 
boozled in pocket. 

Pull, (winking.) You are right: — I must be a 
little more cautious about my phraseolog^y. 

Daub. All that you have said, we knew of al- 
ready ; through the newspapers and yourself — but 
how about our graft? Each one of us is to get 
one tenth of one per cent of the whole. 

Males, (clamorously.) Yes, how about our 
checks ? 

Puix. My talk was only a preliminary to that, 
— I have the checks with me. (produces them). 
Here, take them, gentlemen. (Hands over checks.) 

Males, (effusively). Many, many, thanks; dear 
Mr Pullwool! (Each looks at his check) Twenty 
five thousand dollars, apiece! (Excitedly waving 
checks in air). Hurrah! Hurrah! (The hurrahing 
is echoed by the. Females, and the young-persons: 
during which, Mirabeau blows his nose loudly.) 

Many, (starlled by nose-blow.) Oh, Mirabeau, 
why don't you cut that bugle-blowing out, in com- 
pany ? 

Mir. (apologetic.) Pardon me, — I was so great- 
ly excited. 

Several, (mollified.) Well, considering the cir- 
cumstances, we will. 

Females, (effusively.) Dear Mr. Pullwool, we 
too desire to express to you, our heartfelt thanks! 

Pull, (pompously.) Don't mention it. 

Males, (joyously to Females). These checks are 
a perfect godsend! They will stop the mouths of 
clamorous creditors! 

Females, (joyously to Males.) Now, we can 
satisfy our needs ! And, best of all, gratify our fan- 
cies! 

Pull, (hilariously.) Now that you are all in a 
liberal mood and not disposed to be sarcastic, I 
will say frankly that I love easy money. 

Many, (laughing.) We were always on to you, 
dear Pullwool. 

Pull, (smiling.) I imagined as much. — (Un- 
happily) The trouble is, when we get money without 
working for it, it begets in us a cupidity that is 
insatiable — that is where the nemesis comes in: 
Confound it, I shall be on nettles until the next 
drive ! 

Many, (imncing). Alas, the money-bug stings 
badly ! 

Mrs Pull. Ah, I love money ! Not, however, 
for its own sake: but because it brings power! 
And, best of all, it allows one to wear rich apparel 
and rare gems. 



FOIBLES 



33 



Many, (wincing). These things, too, have their 
pangs ! 

Enter a Messenger, in uniform, left. 

Mess. A letter for Rev J. Postern, D. D. 

(Holds it ujy). 

Post. That is my name. 

Mess, (handing letter). Doctor Killem, sent it 
from the hospital. There is no answer. 

(Exit Mess. — Postern opens and reads letter.) 

Post, (greatly agitated). Merciful heavens! — 
Listen, all of you, to the harrowing contents of 
this note! (reads) "I am bringing Ruth and Alex- 
ander home, dead. Hastily, Doctor Killem." 

Knob. Post. & Wives. What — ? Ruth and 
Alexander dead! Horrible! It can't be possible! 

Many. Oh, that is surely too frightfully im- 
probable, to be true! 

Knob- (tensely.) Let me see the note. (Postern 
hands note and Knoblock looks it over.) Alas, it 
reads very plainly— there is not a shred to hang a 
hope on! (Hands back note.) 

Mrs. Knob & Mrs. Post. O, unutterable sorrow ! 

Many. Why, the dear things were considered 
to be convalescent only yesterday. 

Post. What a sudden and terrible change. 

Knob. Dear Alexander! I loved you very ten- 
derly ; even though you was a dwarf ! 

Mrs. Knob, (tearfully-) The afflicted are always 
loved with an intenser love — O, how we lovedl our 
boy! 

Post. Darling Ruth ! I loved you very tenderly 
even though you wa5 a lilliputian! 

Mrs. Post. The afflicted — as was said — are loved 
with an intenser love — O, how we loved our girl ! 

Many. Dear Ruth and Alexander! They were 
beloved of us all ! 

Knob. Fond lovers Xh^y were: so perfectly suited 
to each other : — yet cruelly parted by us. 

Post, O, why did we interfere with afifection's 
natural course? (Guiltily.) It was only another 
concomitant of our unnatural feud. 

Mrs. Knob. This terrible blow may be the ire of 
heaven. 

Mrs. Post. Sent to bring us to our senses. 

Knob. & Post, (to each other.) I have not the 
heart, sir ; to be your enemy longer. 

Many, (surprised.) Hear — ! 

Knob. & Post. I desire to be your friend. 

Many. Bravo ! 

Knob. & Post. In fact, your very DEAR 
friend! (They shake hands warmly) 

Many, (delighted). Bravo! Bravo! 

Mrs Knob. & Mrs Post, (to each other). And 
I, also, desire to be your very dear friend ! (Start- 
ing to embrace, Mrs. Knoblock's hat, strikes Mrs. 
Postern in face) 

Mrs Post. Oh my! your gigantic hat nearly 
knocked my eye out. (everybody snviles). Why do 
you wear one on the lawn? Seldom anyone does 
— except your husband, and the Ambassador. 



Mrs Knob. What, indulging in your bulldozing 
again eh? I fairly idolize big hats: (everybody 
snviles) they are a part of my life! 

Mrs Knob. & Mrs Post, (their scowls changing 
to smiles again.) Forgive me dear! (They embrace.) 

Many. Bravo! Bravo! 

Mir. Ah, these two pair of implacable enemies, 
for years — have been changed in a trice, by the loss 
of children, into dear friends! Surely, mysterious 
are the ways of providence- 

Many. Isn't it really delightful to see them 
friends! — And the bitter stroke has also had a tre- 
mendously softening influence upon every heart. 

Several. Ah, here come the Stakers! 

Enter the Stakers, attired for the street, from 
front-door of second house. 

Stakers. (to the others-) Good-morning, dear 
ladies and gentlemen ! 

Others, (to the Stakers.) Good-morning, dear 
Mr. and Mrs. Staker, and family! 

Stakers. You are all out early, this beautiful 
morning- 

Others. The fact is, we came out expressly to 
see you off. 

Stakers. Indeed? — That is awfully kind of you, 
to be sure. 

Others. And we do now, all of us, bid you all, 
a hearty good-bye! and a hearty God-speed! 

Stakers. In return, we do, all of us, bid YOU 
all. a hearty good-bye! and a hearty God-speed! 

Several, (as Stakers offer hands). We won't 
shake hands, just yet: we will walk with you to 
the end of lawn. 

Mr- & Mrs. Stak. That will indeed be delight- 
ful ! 

(All of the elderly persons, and Harold, start 
to exeunt, right : and Otis. Edivard, Noel, Gert- 
rude, Violet, and Hazel — remaining —instinctively 
gather together in pairs). 

Elderly-persons, (looking back). Ah, the 
young people, are very anxious to have a last part- 
ing word together, alone ! (Exeunt.) 

Otis Edw. & Noel, (each joyously to his girl). 
Ah, alone together at last ! 

Ger. Vio. & Haz. (each joyously to her beau.) 
Yes! after many weary days. O, what joy! 

Otis. Edw. & Noel, (each, sadly to his girl.) 
But only to say farewell! 

Ger. Vio. & Haz. (each, sadly to her beau.) 
Farewell! A word that has been, and must be! 

Otis Edw. & Noel. A word that makes one 
shudder ) 

Ger. & Vio. (retrospectively.) It is three long 
weeks, since we lovers sacrificed ourselves, 
on the altar of parental duty. 

Otis & Edw. (sadly). And during all that time 
we have — by stern commands of our respective 
parents— merely exchanged ciinlities on passing. 

Haz. (sadly). As you know, Noel and I, too, 
only exchange civilities on passing. 



34 



FOIBLES 



Noel. (Jiigubriously.) Because we also have 
sacrificed ourselves on the altar of parental duty. 

Otis & Edw. But you are both young, — yours 
is only a puppy love. 

Noel & Haz. (ruefully). On the contrary, ours 
is not a puppy ; but a full-grown dog. 

Ger. & Vio. (laughing). Is it, indeed? Then 
you are to be pitied, like the rest of us. 

Otis & Edw. O, how we have all suffered! 

Ger. & ViO. Yes, — almost beyond endurance! 

Haz. And it shows on you all ! Why, Violet 
dear, you are paler (ivinking to the rest) even than 
usual. 

Vio. Isn't it mortifying: I paint, you know, to 
look pale ; but I don't want to be a ghost. 

Noel. And, Edward, you seem to have lost some 
of your prodigious (winking to the rest) strmgth. 

Edw. To my disgust, my arm muscles seem to 
be growing positively flabby. 

Haz. Dear Gertrude, you appear to be really 
rattled. 

Ger. Having miserably failed in my endeavor 
to bear it with a fortitude in keeping with my 
kingly (the rest wink to one another) descent. 

Noel. And, Otis, you look as though you were 
completely broke up. 

Otis. I have sought distraction, by speeding 
it up in my stock speculating, (the rest zcink to 
one another) and automobiling, — but in vain. 

Haz. I myself, have even lost my liking for ice 
cream and candy. 

Rest. Ha, ha! 

Noel. And I, can hardly utter a word. (Dole- 
fully). If I falter thus, privately; how can I hope 
ever to disgorge a dictionary full of words, publicly. 

Rest. Ha, Ha, Ha ! 

Otis, (looking off, right). Hah, here they all 
come back again ! 

Rest, (looking an.riously). Because of impa- 
tience at our delay, no doubt. 

Otis. Yes, — and perhaps angry, too. 

Edw. Ger. & Haz. We will have to join them 
at once. 

Otis Noel & Vio. Therefore, our sad parting 
must be done quickly. (They all shake hands 
around). 

Otis Edw. & Noel, (each taking his girl's hand.) 
Farewell ! 

Ger. Vio. & Haz. (eacli to her beau.) Farewell ! 

(Each pair starts to separate, but instinctively 
return and spring into an embrace; remaining 
azcluile; then Edward, Gertrude, and Hazel, go 
despairingly out, right; and Otis, Noel, and Violet, 
gaze despairingly after them; then sit together on 
an iron-bench, and bury faces in hands.) 

Re-enter Edward, Gertrude, and Hazel, right. 

Edw. & Ges. (to Otis & Vio.) O, joy! Your 
fathers told us to come back, and make as much 
love as we liked! 



Otis & Vio. (having arisen.) What — ? It 
can't be possible! 

Haz. Yes, it is so. And Noel, your father told 
me that we might (blushing) keep company — but 
not to become betrothed, for one year yet. 

Otis, Vio. & Noel. O, joy! O, joy! (Otis and 
Edward embrace their girls, and Noel takes Hazel's 
hands). 

Re-enter the Elderly-persons and Harold. 

Pull. Bac. & Wives, (ivatching lovers-) Be 
happy— children ! 

Mr. & Mrs. Stak. Be happy— children! 

Many. Yes, be happy — children! 

Lovers. O, we are very, very happy ! And we 
thank you all sincerely ! And you, our dear parents, 
how we thank you ! 

( They embrace their own parents and shake hands 
with their betrothed' s parents, then pair off again.) 

Many, (to the lovers.) Dear Mr. Staker, is 
not going to leave us, after all, — so we shall still 
all be together, on the block ! 

Lovers. O, what good news ! Isn't it grand ! 

Mir. Listen to how it happened: As we walked 
along we acquainted Mr. and ^Irs. Staker, with our 
sad bereavement, — and they were deeply moved ; as 
they loved Ruth and Alexander, dearly. With our 
hearts thus attuned to tenderness, we began to realize 
our real liking for the Staker family ; and beseeched 
Mr. & Mrs. Staker, to remain — 

Stak. (gratefully.) You gentlemen, generously 
offering even to share your twenty-five thousand dol- 
lar checks with me, to help me get on my feet again ! 

Mrs. Stak. (reproachfully to Staker.) Which 
you declined — after profuse thanks, and regrets 
— on the ground of the unfortunate attachment of 
our children for their children : — ah, my heart droop- 
ed ; for it was still bent on living with the great ! 

MiR. (continuing.) And then, Mess. Pulhvool and 
Bacon and their wives, (to the bravos of all,) no- 
bly gave their hearty approval to the wedlock of 
Otis with Gertrude, and of Edward with Violet,— 
and Mr. Staker wavered. 

Daub. And finally gave in. 

Stak. (tickled.) Yes, when you all mourned 
prospectively, the loss of my exquisite manners! 

Mrs. Knob. To conclude— jo3'ously returning, 
we were joined by the young Stakers ; and Edward 
and Gertrude were tipped off to return to their 
loves. 

Mrs. Post. And Hazel was tipped off, by Mr. 
Law, to return to her Noel. 

St.vk. There is yet a thing to add: My great 
fortune is still intact. 

Many. What — ! You haven't lost your money? 

Stak. No, — the loss was only a fabrication; 
which I unworthily gave in to, as being a good way 
out of the troubles of that time. 

All. (joyously to Staker and each other.) 
Congratulations ! Congratulations ! 



FOIBLES 



35 



Enter Rozzi and Bridget, attired for tin- street, 
from basement of second house. 

Brid. B'jabers yez all look verv' happy. 

Roz. Yes'a; as happy as a clnm'a at hioh-tide. 

Brid. Yis :-and yez young people, particularly so. 

Lovers. We are, Bridget. 
X Haz- Havn't you got a fellow? 
■ Brid. Of coorse, right here — but he's sich a 
Fbashful man. {Pathetically to Rozzi) Mr. Rozzi, 
I this is not lape year, but my heart, sure, that does 
lape. — will you marry me? {Ruefully) Indade I am 
no spring-chicken: {consolingly) but then na'thur 
are you. 

Ro2. {laughing.) I am'a only the kind ot the 
spring'a-de-chick that is served up'a in some res- 
taurants, deceptively, as"a the real thing — a tough'a 
rooster. 

Brid. But b'gorra yez always act very tender to 
me. 

Roz. Because you are'a my queen'a! 

Brid. Ah, yure queen, eh? thin I will at once 
procade to ascend my throne! {She lays her head 
on his breast and he embraces her ardently-) 

Many, {amused at them from- first.) Good! 
Another happy couple. 

Star. Mr Rozzi, we have changed our minds 
about leaving here, and I hire you now, at double 
your former pay. That will enable you to place 
Bridget in a nice apartment. 

Roz. & Brid. O, thank you, sir : thank you ! 

Star. Not art: all : I am glad to be of service. 

Brid. Bedad, I am so frustrated, that I will 
have to take a dhrop of the cray'thur. 

Roz. Bedad, I am so'a frustrated, that I will 
hav'a to take a pinch'a of snuflf. 

{Having produced these luhilc speaking, they both 

indulge) 

Manv. Ha, ha, the ruling passion, strong, even 
in death. 

Daub. Or, in love. 
' {Exeunt Rozzi and Bridget into hasement) 
" Many. O, this is indeed a supremely happy 
occasion I {qualifying sadly) Or it would be if 
only darlings, Ruth and Alexander, were but with 
us. 

Knob. Post. & Wives. Ah, our darlings ! 

Some, {looking off left). Merciful powers — 
can it be — yes there they come ! ! And the doctor ! 

Knob. Post. & Wives. Our beloved ones alive 
and well — O heaven be praised ! ! 
Enter Ale.vander and Ruth, wth doctor Kiltem, 
after All have rushed to left ivings to meet them. 

Many. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 

Knob. Post. & Wives, {embracing Ruth and 
Alexander, alternately.) Our darling, darling 
children. 

{All the rest fondle the two children) 

KiL. What a racket, noise, fuss, combustion ! 
Have you all gone daffy?" 



Knob. Post. & Wives. But, dear doctor, why 
shouldn't we all be boisterously joyous: Our dear 
children, were dead and are alive again. 

Many. What? Remain phlegmatic under such 
a miracle, — why even you, Killem, in spite of all 
your vaunted professional stoicism, must have danced 
for joy when you learned of the error. 
KiL. You speak a riddle — What error? 
Many. You ask that, — notwithstanding the con- 
tents of your note. 

KiL. What was wrong about the note? Let me 
see it. {Postern hands him note: which he reads 
and tears up). Confound it! A stupid blunder of 
mine, in putting one wrong word in. {Exculpating 
himself.) But you see, that, so few of my hospital 
patients ever recover, that the form of my final 
letters to their families and' friends, has become 
stereotyped: and I simply followed the stereotyped 
form ; forgetting to substitute the word cured, for 
the sad word : the error, I think was pardonable. 

Many. Pardonable perhaps, considering the notes 
unusual brevity. 

Daub. But isn't it a shame, that you, who habit- 
ually chatter endlessly about nothing, .should ac- 
tually begrudge words when you write on the gravest 
of subjects. 

KiL. I do like to descant, sir; but upon living 
issues : In regard to the others, the less said 
aboirt them the better. 

Alex. & Ruth, {to their parents). Then, dear 
parents, you really believed us dead, — O, how 
dreadfully you must have suffered ! 

Knob. Post. & WIives. {zifincing). It can bet- 
ter be imagined than described ! 

Alex. & Ruth, {tenderly). And the rest of 
you suffered, too ! 

Many. Yes — beyond bounds! — And no real 
cause for it. either. 

Knob. Post. & Wives. Nothing but the erratic 
doctor. However, we will forgive him — and not 
that alone, but we'll bless him! for he has, unwit- 
tinsrlv, been the cause of immeasurable joy ! 

Many. For out of it, Ruth and Alexander, your 
parents have become the dearest of friends ? 

Alex. & Ruth, {delighted). O, that is grand! 

Knob. Post. & Wives. And now you can wed, 
dear children ! 

Alex. & Ruth, {embracing each other)- O, can 
we ! ! 

Knob. Post. & Wives. Yes, just as soon as you 
like. 

Ruth, {rapturously). Oh, my, I will order 
a new pair of high-heels for the ceremony at once ! 

Alex, {rapturously). And I a new stovepipe! 

Many, {laughing). The parson, under the rules 
would hardly dare allow you to wear a hat. 

Alex, {positively). Then I will get a special 
dispensation. 

Many. Ha, ha. 

Ruth, {as Alex embraces again). My Romeo! 

Alex. My Juliet! 



36 



FOIBLES 



Lovers, (joining Alex, and Ruth.) Our love 
affairs, also, have taken a happy turn—and the 
Stakers are not going to leave us— that is more, 
dears of the immeasurable joy, spoken of before. 
Alex. & Ruth, (joyonslx). We kind'a guessed 
as much— and are so glad! O, you all look so 
happy ! And the Stakers are so nice ! 

Pull. By the bye. doctor, here is your dri\e 
check,— the others received th;irs. 

KiL. (looking it over.) Ah, Lweniy-five thou- 
sand dollars! • This will come in handy— as my 
patients are way behind in paying bills. 

(Miss Law joins Doctor, and they come to foot- 
lights, talking : the rest, catching on, gather together 
and watch them with smiles of enjoyment, under 
cover of conversing.) 

Miss Law. (sweetly-) Dear Doctor— you ought 
to be happy now. 

KiL. \sadl\). I ought to be— but am not! 
For I am discovering, that my profession, (as much 
as I like it,) is no real substitute for a mate. 
(Ardcntlx) Miss Law I am going to propose— 
Miss Law. (aside.) Ah, there is love-hght 
in his eyes! It must be a real proposal this tmne. 
(To doctor coyly). Pardon my maidenly confusion. 
KiL. That we'act as bridesmaid and groomsman, at 
these young persons' nupnals — 

Miss Law. (aside, sodly and angrily.) Only 
fooling, again ! 

KiL. Then, no doubt, they will conseiW to per- 
form like functions at our nuptials,— (sheepishly) 
that is, if you will deign to bestow your virgin af- 
fections on poor me! 

Miss Law. (beaming). They have long been 
yours, dear! (They embrace). 

KiL. (lovingly.) And you will consent to a 
quick wedding? 

Miss Law. (lovingly.) Yes dear \— (Anxious- 
ly.) But you won't object to my continuing to 
wear short skirts? 



KiL. Why you needn't wear any,— if that ever 
becomes the fad. 

Many, (coming laughingly for-cvard.) We have 
been keeping tabs on you — we know all ! 

KiL. & Miss Law. (shamefaced.) Then you saw 
us, after all— we thought you were conversing. 

Many. Ha. ha. that was only a make-believe. 

KiL. & Miss Law. Oh you rogues,— (smiling) 
but then we were a little sly too. 

Many. Congratulations ! — 

KiL. & Miss Law. Many thanks!— 

(An out-of -sight organ-grinder starts playing). 

Lovers. Ah, there's waltz music— let's take ad- 
vantage of it! (The lovers pair off and begin 
dancing, and the elderly persons soon follow suit). 

Bac. (producing pipe and filling it.) Here 
Dauber, please take my wife for your partner,— I 
am literally dying for a smoke. 

Daub, (gallantly). With great pleasure! 

Mrs. Bac. (as she and Dauber start to waltz). 
Oh, go off by your lonesome. Bakie ; so that the 
smoke stench won't get into the ladies and gentle- 
men's old-factories. 

Bac. (puzzled.) Their old-factories ! Where the 
deuce— what the deuce— are they? 

Mrs. B.\c. (touching her nose.) Why, their 
smellers; of course. (She and Daub, join in the 
ivaitsing). 

Bag. (lighting his pipe and smoking.) Ha, ha! 
so, olfactories was the word, she was driving at. 
The dear thing, like so many others of the un- 
cultured, loves to use the big words that she hears : 
(Merrily ) Oh what a mess they all make of them. 

(Exit right). 

MiR. & Law. (looking at the dancers.) Ah, 
this lawn dance— this enchanting spectacle— is a fit- 
ting finale, to an all-around happy morning!— 

(Curtain). 



DORA DIMPLE'S BEAU 



A SKETCH IN TWO SCENES 



(Note — This zuas zvritfen by me long ago — run across %vhile delving in sonic literary rubbish — revised as re- 
gards some obvious faults {due to inexperience,) and published herewith. Any persons desiring to use it, 
may do so — as there is no copyright. F. P. Norton. 



Characters. 



John Dimple, (a 7vealthy Stockbroker with sport- 
ing proclivities) 
DoR,\ Dimple, his Daughter, (a high-life Belle) 



Fred. Legitt, {right-fielder on the Champion 

Giants) 
Joe. Rhodes, his Valet, (o Cockney) 



Scene I. — Fred's bachelor Apartments, Central Park West, New York City. 



Joe. {discovered, brushing up his master's 
clothes.) Well, the h'owner of these clothes h'is sure- 
ly the swellest guy that I h'ever acted h'as valet 
for. Nattier h'even than the young Duke h'of 
Edgevvater ; who was known h'as "Chesterfield the 
Second," on h'account of 'is style. This right-field- 
er h'of the Champion Giants, can beat him h'a mile! 
H'aristocratic? well, h'l guess— He's certainly h'a 
all-around 'ummer — Handsome h'as Apollo; h'and 
the h'easy graceful way that h'all athletes 'ave — 
H'and his wardrobe? why it would make h'a woman 
green with h'envy — And when 'e gets his duds on 
'e looks like h'a fashion-plate. {Keeps on working) 

Enter Fred in Champion Giants uniform. 

Fred. How-dy, Joe! — Never mind me, go on 
with your work. I have got to rest — {sinks in a 
chair) I am all in — could hardly walk in from the 
taxi, (which I came home in, because I didn't go 
to the club house and dofi this uniform, even. 

Joe. I was surprised, sir; when you h'entered 
with it h'on. Well, you can change to this h'evening 
suit, for to go h'out and dine. {Lays it one side) 

Fred. Yes, I will wear that. 

Joe. And how h'about the suit h'up at the club- 
house ? 

Fred. Why, I will go in uniform, in a taxi, to 
to-morrow's game, and change into it afterward. 

Joe. {solicitously.) What made you so h'unu- 
sually tired to-day? 

Fred. Why, both pitchers were off color ; con- 
sequently it was easy for the sluggers to locate 
the ball— long and high flies in every direction — I 
chased them until I was almost ready to drop — 

Joe. {laughing-) H'in other words, sir, you 
'ad to leg it. 



Fred, {laughing.) Hah, you rascal, that was a 
play-upon-words pun — as my name is Legitt. 

Joe. {nodding yes.) H'l couldn't let the h'op- 
portunity pass. Pardon me — go h'on. 

Fred. I got no rest either when we went in — six 
times at bat — Made a homer and two double-sackers 
— Both clubs hit the ball hard, and did stunts in the 
add— {Enthusing) We beat them though 14 to U. 

Joe. 1 h'am very glad, Mr Fred, for your sake! 
But baseball has no charms for me, — cricket! that's 
my 'obby. {Reminiscent) The mere mention h'of it, 
brings fond memories. Ah, the day that h'all London 
played) the Continentals ! I 'ad a 'eavy wager on 
London : The Continentals had h'a long lead, when 
h'up comes Bushby to bat for h'all London — My 'eart 
was h'in my mouth when the bowler tossed the ball — 
H'and such bowling! he 'ardlly h'ever sent a ball 
h'over'wide' (h'a wild pitch you calls it)— But 
Bushby had 'is h'eye on the ball, h'and 'e never 
stopped until 'e scored the winning run! 

Fred, {having arisen thro interest.) Aha, Joe, 
your narration of that bit of your sporting past was 
so vivid that I almost imagined myself a spectator 
of the game! Baseball for mine, however,— it's the 
proper caper at present, and commands big pay. I 
don't know of any other profession to-day — minis- 
ter, lawyer, physician or politician — that would en- 
able me to surround Dora, with the luxuries she 
has been used to. 

Joe. {inquisitively.) And who h'is Dora ? might 
I h'ask. 

Fred, {fervently.) A beauty! And high-life 
belle! The daughter of John Dimple, a rich stock- 
broker: {anxiously) and to get her, he must be dealt 
with^ — {despondently) besides, how can I, although 



DORA DIMPLE S BEAU 



some pumpkins myself, ever hope to win so rare a 
prize. 

Joe. It h'is the money, that talks h'every time, sir : 
with your h'income of h'eight 'undred pounds h'a 
year (what you told me they pays you) you can 'ave 
your pick. 

Fred. There is only one for me, Joe — Dora 
Dimple. I have studied her curves — and they can't 
be beat. She has got an assortment of them; and 
delivers them in such a way. as to fool and puzzle 
you— you never know what is coming next. But 
now I am getting on to them a little — and am ac- 
tually able to make a hit off of her occasionally. 
The eager striving to fatten up my batting average 
in our game of love, keeps me in a constant state of 
delight. 

Joe. I don't h'exactly h'understand this baseball 
talk, sir; but h'in race-horse parlance, which I do 
h'understand, you no doubt meant to say that she 



h'is a thoroughbred. And that you h'are making 
'eadway with her. 

Fred. Exactly so ! 

Joe. Well, I 'ope that you gets 'er, Mr. Legitt. 
And h'also hope that h'afterwards she don't take 
the bit h'in 'er teeth, h'and run h'away — as these 
'igh-steppers sometimes do. 

Fred. Ha, ha, Joe : there's not the slightest danger 
of HER doing that.— Now I want you to quit work 
and go out and enjoy yourself. As for me, I am 
going to take a long rest now — then go out and feed 
my face— come home early and go to bed — for I 
have an engagement to play tennis with Dora to- 
morrow morning, and I want to be in good shape. 

Joe. H'all-right, sir: h'and thank you kindly! — 
Tennis? You needs your white-flannel suit for 
that — h'it will be ready for you when you h'arise. 

Fred. Many thanks! old pal. (Exit Joe) 

(Fred sits down and soon doses, and Dora's 
dream picture appears on the wall. — Curtain) 



Scene II. — A cosy Sitting-room, in Dora's home, on Riverside Drive, New York City. 



Enter Dora, imth her hat and temiis rackets and 

ba{Us in her hands, rear. 

Dora, (wjf/i vanity.) Ah, 1 think that I am ar- 
rayed quite stunningly for my coming tennis game 
with 'er Fred — (blushing) 1 should have said, Mr. 
Legitt. (Lays hat, rackets and balls on a table, near 
center.) Oh I wish that he would come — I am as 
uneasy as a fish out of water — I hope he will like 
my new dress — It ought to be good for a compli- 
ment ; it cost, enough — And my jaunty new hat ! My 
it will never do to leave it lie that way; (turns it 
over) it dont show to advantage. Tennis is nice- 
but it is not quite as well adapted for courting as 
a tcte a tcte in the house. It's just too delicious for 
anything to have this big handsome fellow make 
love! (Ardently) Oh I adore him! (Roguishly) 
But he shan't know it until I have teased him a little. 
(Pensively) I think— yes I am quite sure, that he 
adores me? (An.riously) But father — there's the 
rub. He is rich and proud : and he thinks, no doubt. 
that Mr Legitt is wealthy and aristocratic: (as I 
have no other kind of beaux.) What will he say 
when he learns that he is only a professional baseball 
player? Oh I dread the outcome? Baseball — lam 
becoming interested in a game that I never saw, — Oh 
I am crazy to go and see him, in uniform and 
a'playing! But havn't done so, for fear that he 
would know too early that I am gone on him. 
(After a pause) Dear father admires the dress — for 
he just said that I make a lovely vision for 
a camera snap-shot. (She laughingly assumes a 
pose — as Fred appears in doorway, right, and makes 
an extravagant demonstration of delight, at the 
dazzUng costume, on the lovely girl: the audience 
sees him, but her head is turned another way- She 
soon resumes her natural carriage.) Oh, I hope and 



believe that he will praise the dress, just as soon 
as he sets eyes on it ! Surely no one but a gawk 
could do otherwise. (Fred smiles mischievously, 
and disappears, stiN unseen by her. She sits on 
a sofa, and takes up a book lying on it.) Ah, a 
little reading will help to make the waiting less 
tedious. 

Enter Fred, attired in a white-fld.nnel suit, right. 

Fred, (advancing quickly.) Good-morning, Miss 
Dora ! 

Dora, (dropping hook and rising.) Gooa-morn- 

ing Mr. Legitt! 

( He takes her hands lovingly, and they exchange 
tender looks — then dropping them he steps a little 
away and looks at her, not beamingly noiu but 
indifferently; Dora is disappointed, and shows it 
by pouting; Fred seeing this turns and iinnks 
aside, then advancing takes her hands again) 

Fred, (beamingly.) Oh, Oh, Oh! 

Dora. (radiantly — expecting delayed compli- 
ment.) What are all the exclamations of delight, 
about ? 

Fred, (doubtfully.) Maybe I hadn't ought to 
say. 

Dora. ( blushing. ) I guess it won't do any harm I 

Fred, (ecstatically.) Oh, oh, what a gloriously 
beautiful (Dora starts expectantly forward) morn- 
ing! 

Dora. (petulantly — disappointed and vexed.) 
Oh, pshaw ! 

Fred, (making believe to be startled.) Hah, 
you are vexed ! And justly so, for I really knew 
that talking about the weather was tabooed in sen- 
timental circles— that it can no longer be used as 



DORA DIMPLE S BEAU 



a makeshift by dull lovers who can think of nothing 
else to say. 

Dora, (reproachfully.) But why had you need 
of mentioning the weather at all: when (tenderly) 
you are always a delightful conversationalist ; and 
(flushing) mix it with many a delicious tidbit of 
flattery. 

Fred, (highly pleased.) Oh thank you! 

Dora, (regretfully.) I shouldn't have said, 'oh, 
pshaw' — but I was expecting a speech from you 
so entirely different. 

Fred, (mock surprise.) Oh were you— (viock 
regret) very sorry to have disappointed you. 

Dora. Of course you didn't know what was 
passing in my mind. (Fred smiles meaningly, 
aside.) — Yet you are always so quick to apprehend 
my every mood, and respond to it with some pretty 
word or action ! 

Fred. Ah yes — the mysterious power of psycho- 
logic affinity ! 

Dora. To-day, however, you are dull— and I 
must fish for (she turns completely around) what 
should have come spontaneously. (She stands ex- 
pectant but he don't bite.) Oh you are dense— not 
dull: and I must speak out bluntly, if I am to get 
the coveted compliment for my new dress. (Ap- 
pealingl\ — taking him by coat lapel.) What do you 
think about my passing muster, for the street — for 
our tennis match? 

Fred, (listlessly.) I can't see anything the 
matter with you. 

Dora, (stamping her foot in vexation ) Oh, 
'you can't see anything the matter with me,' can't 
you! 

Fred, (mock surprise and scare.) Why did you 
angrily mimic me? 

Dora, (lozvering at him.) Oh, such unstinted 
praise! And so poetically expressed! — (Desperate- 
ly.) There— there on the table is the hat, that goes 
with the suit. — perhaps you will deign to pass judge- 
ment also upon that? 

Fred. With pleasure. (Goes to table, takes up 
hat, looks it over calmly critically, then looking at 
Dora — who lias been anxiously watching him — gives 
her not one word or look of praise) 

Dora, (after waiting impatiently.) Well — ? 

Fred, (drawlingly.) I can't see anything the 
matter with it. 

Dora, (sarcastically — vexed clean thru.) Oh 
you parrot! (Fred zvinces comically) 

Fred, (laying hat back on table.) Ah, here are 
our tennis implements ! ( Takes each one up ivhile 
speaking of it.) A racket for you, and one for 
me; and a ball for you, and one for me. (Hav- 
ing gotten all of them in his hands, he tosses 
them up, juggler like, in the air one after another; 
keeping them all up together, seemingly) 

Dora, (rvhose vexed look, has changed into a 
smile of amusement.) Ah,quite entertaining, to be 
sure ! A rather difficult feat — and you can do it 
very deftly. 



Fred. Yes, I can juggle a little— as well as play 
ball. (A ball drops and rolls out thru the door: 
Dora laughs — Fred chases otit after it) 

Dora, (pouting) The stupid, never enthused one 
bit over the dress, or the hat — He acts unaccount- 
ably strange; not a bit like himself — Can it be 
possible that the costly outfit is nowhere near as 
stylish, as I thought ? Or is it that he don't happen 
to fancy it ? Anyway, I am all up in the air. Shall 
I change it before our game — Or give the game 
up — (proudly) Or even give him up — (pensively) 
yet how could I ever do that. 

Fred, (re-entering and laying lost ball with rest.) 
What's the matter with starting now for the tennis 
court ? 

Dora. Nothing: but — 

Fred. Don't hesitate: but what? 

DoR-A.. (distressed.) I am beginning to have 
grave misgivings, about, — (reproachfully) for rea- 
sons that are quite obvious, — about this dress and 
hat being becoming to me — but it is some trouble 
to make a change. 

Fred, (politely indifferent.) I can sit down 
and wait, should you decide to attire yourself dif- 
ferently. 

Dora. Qlooking at him with rising zcrath an 
instant and then bursting out.) No, I don't want 
to change it ! I don't want to go out at all ! 

Fred. (mock indifference.) Oh, just as you 
please. But aren't you acting a bit whimsical? 

Dora, (resentfully.) No, I am not. (Can- 
didly) To tell truth, I am beginning to be disappoint- 
ed in you — (sadly) and it gives me a pain at the 
heart. Heretofore you have ever been very gallant 
chivalrous, and (blushing) ardent: in every way a 
beau ideal: — (regretfully) But, to-day^ 

Fred, (interrupting.) To-day. I am a gawk. 

Dora, (suspiciously.) What made you use that 
word? 

Fred, (laughingly.) I got it from you. 

Dora. Hah, you were eavesdropping, then be- 
fore you entered? 

Fred. In a way, yes: You see, I reached the 
door, just as you were posing ; and stopped — 
transfixed by the enchantingly lovely sight ! 

Dora, (beamingly.) "Enchantingly lovely sight'' 
—ah that is delicious praise! ah that is a satisfying 
compliment! And more than makes up for your 
delinquency. 

Fred, (looking her over admiringly.) And I 
could truthfully say much more in the same vein! 

Dora, (flushing with pleasure.) Oh, thank you! 

Fred. To resume my story : Being anxious to 
speak to you the exclamations of delight, trembling 
on my lips, I started to enter ; but stopped, on hear- 
ing you say, what you did, about the expected 
compliment from me — because the thought came to 
me what great sport it would be to tease you: to 
allay suspicion I went away a minute, and then 
came in: — you know the rest. 



DORA DIMPLE S BEAU 



Dora, (approvingly.) 'To tease me' — was what 
you had decided upon when you entered,— that is 
good ! ha, ha, I fully appreciate the joke of the thing! 

Fred, (laughingly.) Yes — and all that I have 
said or done since was in furtherance of the teasing. 

Dora, (joyously-) And the gathering cloud, 
has been dispersed bv explanations — oh I am so 
glad ! 

Fred, (earnestly.) While enjoyable, the exper- 
iment has not been without alloy : therefore I shall 
not be 30 eager, in the future, to snap up an oppor- 
tunity to tease you. 

Dora, (forgivingly.) How so? I simply de- 
light in teasing anyone, myself. 

Fred. But, wound your feelings, — never again! 
(Taking her hands, lovingly) Can you — do you — 
really forgive me? 

Dora, (lovingly.) Freely — with all my heart! 
— (They drop hands-) How long were you going 
to keep the teasing up? (Laughingly) 

Fred. I don't know — I have no definite idea 
— As long as it seemed amusing. 

Dora, (after a pause, lifting her face, which 
had become dotvncast thru bashfulness at his ardent 
look.) So you really do like my new outfit? 

Fred, (ecstatically.) Why, the dress — is a 
dream and you look stunningly lovely in it ! And 
the hat, it is simply out-of -sight ! 

Dora, (delighted.) I am so glad that you like 
them! (Confidently) I thought that you would— 
for they are both Redfem's latest. 

Fred, (ardently.) I don't want to offend you — 
but there is something, that I like, even, ever so 
much better than the dress ! 

Dora, (archly.) What is that ? 

Fred. The person that's inside of it! (Piits arm 
arottnd her waist, lovingly) 

Dora, (blushing.) I hoped that it was— myself ! 

Fred, (intensely happy.) Ah! Ah! 

Dora, (intensely happy-) Ah! Ah! 

Fred, (as Dora, after a while, tries to elude the 
embrace.) Oh, don't break away yet. 

(She soon succeeds, and he looks all broken up) 

Dora, (coquetteishly.) You see, this dress is 
very delicate material ; too delicate, for you to have 
an ami around me, very long — (Fred looks dis- 
consolate) — at a time. 

Fred, (despair turning to joy.) Not, very long — 
at a time, eh? Ha, ha, then what's the matter with 
our going by boxing rules : three minute rounds — 
one minute intermissions. 

Dora. Ha, ha, that isn't a bad idea. 

Fred. When I call 'time', we will come to the 
scratch, for the first three minute round. 

Dora, (smiling.) Elxactly. 

Fred. Time. (He embraces her, and taking out 
watch keeps tabs on the minutes) 

Dora, (breaking away laughingly.) I guess we 
had better go out and play our tennis now, — if we 



don't you may forget all about it. (She starts for 
door) 

Fred, (folloimng her beseechingly.) Oh,please 
remain ! I — -I have something to say to you. 

(With a toss of her head, Dora leaves, but soon 
pokes her face in) 

Dora, (tantalizingly.) Don't forget to bring along 
the rackets and balls. (Exit right) 

Fred, (picking them up.) Ah, her wondrous 
beauty ! And the great love I bear her ! have got me 
going, — and I am quite sure that, before our playing 
has proceeded very far, I will have to pop the 
question to her. (E.vit right) 

Enter Dimple, rear: he had looked in tzvice while 
the lovers zvere there. 

Dimple. They have vacated finally ! I am glad of 
it, for I want to do some writing. Dora, my dar- 
ling child, seems to be conquered at last. Amongst 
all the dashing young fellows who call upon her, she 
has shown to none more than a passing fancy,-she is 
certainly in earnest however with this one. It 
pleases me well— for I liked him from the first. 
A fine stalwart young fellow ! Just as I was at his 
age. Legitt, is his name : I never heard of it before, 
but ril wager that he is all O-K both as to family 
and prospects. (Proudly.) If he is not, he shall 
not have her : for I, John Dimple — rich stockbroker 
— must have nothing but a fitting son-in-law. The 
first thing that I must do is to write my daily stock- 
market letter. This letter has gotten to be a feature 
of the financial district: my long experience and 
sound judgement, enable me to rightly forecast many 
ups and downs of prices. The lambs eagerly 
clamber for it, under the belief that it will help 
them in their frantic efforts to make easy money : — 
and it does help them : (laughing) or rather, as much 
as anything can, when we consider that Wall street — 
as the outsiders strongly suspect and we insiders 
actually know — is nothing but a sucker game. (Sits 
at a desk and takes pen and paper) What shall I 
say in today's letter? (thinks) Well, here goes. 

(Writes letter, and reads it aloud while writing.) 

"The stock market had a firm tone today, and it 
looks like going higher. Prices are high — in fact 
they look frightfully high to people who live in 
furnished rooms. The people however who really 
make prices — men of large wealth and large ideas 
—never amuse themselves with cheap things: so we 
may expect their pet securities to be fixed at very 
high figures. Buy on slight reactions. 
Yours truly, 

John Dimple & Co." 

There, that I think will do quite well. — Now to 
attend to some social correspondence. (Looks over 
mail) 

Re-enter Fred and Dora, right: they show ela- 
tion because of seeing Dimple, and fondly embrac- 



DORA DIMPLE S BEAU 



ing, start to go to him; not being yet seen by 
Dimple. 

Dora, (skipping happily-) Oh Papa, you are 
just the man, I was looking for! 

Dimple, (laughing.) Just the man, eh? my 
dear! — How do you do, Mr. Legitt? Very glad 
to see you, again! (They shake hands) 

Fred. In the best of health and spirits — thank 
you — Mr Dimple! I hope you are very well? 

Dimple. Excellent! Never felt better in my 
life. — Well, Dora, what can I do for you? 

Dora, (stammering.) I — I want to ask — or 
rather F-Fred, Mr. Legitt, does— a favor, a very 
great favor, of you ! 

Dimple. Ah, I am delighted to be of service, 
Mr. Legitt! What is it? 

(Fred shows comic timidity, and Dora sic's him 
on) 

Fred. I— I — want— Confound it, I lack the nerve 
to tell you ! 

Dimple. Ah, you are a little squeamish, about 
it— but you will soon get over that. 

Fred, (lugubriously.) I hope so, — but it will 
take a few minutes — I will have to come to it 
gradually. 

Dimple. And I will try and help you along.— 
Perhaps, you want me to give you a good thing? 

Fred, (eagerly.) Y-yes, that is substantially 
what it amounts to ! 

Dimple. Ha, ha, I thought so, — for a shrewd 
man, an astute man, is always on the lookout, for 
a race horse, that is going to win at a fancy price, 
or a low-priced railroad stock, that is going to have 
a big rise. 

Fred. Yes, that's true in some cases — but, but — 

Dimple, (interrupting.) Never mind the bnts, 
Fred. — (Produces, and hands him a paper.) This 
is a list of splendid railroad stocks, that are selling 
for a song — buy any one of them, for a big and 
quick profit. (Tapping Fred friendlily on shoulder) 
Now I hai'e given you a good thing! 

Fred. (dubiously.) Y-j'es, you have — thank 
you! but not the one that I wanted you to. 

Dimple, (surprised.) Ah, you already have 
something in view ! 

Fred, (looking straight at Dora.) Yes, I have 
something in view! (Ardently) Far better than a 
sure winner in stocks or in the ponies! And I 
began to say so, when — 

Dimple. I interrupted you, — I understand. 

Fred. But I can't get it, nor do I want to, with- 
out your approval— your consent. 

Dimple. Ah, that speech removes my perplexity: 
you wanted me to give it to you, in the sense, of 
giving my approval — before you consummate the 
deal: (tickled) I feel highly flattered by your 
confidence in my financial acumen ! 

DoR.'V. (impatiently.) Oh father, you don't 
understand, at all— if you don't tell him', Fred; T 
will ! 

Dimple, (annoyed.) Don't butt in, Dora, or 



Its 



-not 



you will make me forget a few pertinent questions, 
to Fred, that I have in mind. — Mr. Legitt, the prop- 
erty, or whatever it is, is it in good shape? 

Fred. Good shape? (looks Dora over.) 
shape is simply out of sight ! 

Dimple. Not— to use a trite expression- 
run down at the heels? 

Fred, (looking at Dora's high heels.) Exactly 
the contrary, sir ! 

Dimple. And lastly, but most important of all — 
not at all likely to go into the hands of a receiver? 

Fred. On the contrary, likely to go into the 
hands — or rather into the arms — of a receiver — 
rieht now ! 

Dimple. The arms of a receiver? — Ah, I think 
that I am be,?-inning to get you — ha, ha, ha. 

Dora, (coyly.) Of course you are, papa! And 
this delay — caused partly by Fred's bashfulness, and 
partlv by the fun of the thing — must end now : — 
Speak out like a man, Fred. 

Fred. Well then, here goes. Mr. Dimple, I love 
Dora ! I have asked her to be mv wife — providing 
that I can afet your approval and consent. 

Dimple, (tivirlinn his 'tvafch chain.) Ah, vou love 
and would wed, my daughter — Mr. Legitt. You do 
me much honor — and soforth. To beein with : 
How do vou know that your love for mv child, will 
be enduring — and not a mere Dassing fancy? 

Fred. ( puaaled. )'How do I know it? Well I DO 
know it, that's all: (convincingly) I know that it 
will endure forever! 

Dimple. Dora, do you love this young man? 

Dora, (blushing.) Yes, dear papa! 

Dimple. Are you quite sure of it? Don't you 
think that a little more time is necessary, to show 
that your feelings will not change? 

Dora, (earnestly.) No, they never can change! 

Dimple. My darling child! I ask you this, because 
in this crisis in vour life, I must be as careful about 
your future happiness, as your dear lamented mother- 
would be, were she alive. 

Dora. Ah, dear, dear mother! 

Dimple. Well, dear Fred and dear Dora, I must 
say that I am highly pleased ! for I have watched 
your courtship, with feelings of joy and satisfac- 
tion. But I had no idea that it had come to a be- 
trothal — When did it happen? 

Dora. Well you see we went out to play tennis — 

Fred. Only ostensibly, for that ; but really, to 
play cupid"s game. 

Dimple. Ha, ha, and then Fred proposed — 
Dora accepted — both conditional on my approval — 
and you rushed into the house to get that. 

Fred. & Dora. Ha, Ha, exactly. 

Dimple. Now, Mr. Legitt; before rendering my 
decision, I will take the liberty of asking you a few 
questions— which seem to me to be very important. 
First: In regard to your family? 

Fred. My family, are respectable, but poor. 

Dimple, (insibly disappointed.) Ah, I imagined 



DORA DIMPLE S BEAU 



that they were blue-blooded and rich ! And respect- 
able is but a slight offset for this: — your answer is 
a distinct disappointment. 

Fred, (miffed.) I can't help it, sir. 

Dimple. But perhaps you have gained, or are 
likely to gain, high social standing and wealth, by 
your own efforts: please tell me of your occupation 
and prospects ? 

Fred. I am a professional baseball player, sir. 
My salary is four thousand dollars a year, — with 
very good prospects of a quick increase. 

Dimple, (disappointed again.) A professional 
baseball player ! Only that : and humble parentage— 
Oh, I cannot, will not, give my consent to the match ! 
(Sternly) Dora, did you know anything of these 
facts ? 

Dora, (grieved and dismayed.) Yes, papa. 

Dimple, (severely.) Then why did you accept 
this youth's attentions! Or even allow him to call 
upon you ! 

Dora, (coaxingly.) Why, dear papa, he looked 
very good to mf^-( ruefully) and I thought he 
would to you eventually, (that is after we were 
engaged) ; but I knew that you would make a big 
fuss first. 

Dimple, (angrily.) I will make a big fuss, first — 
last— and all the time !— Now Mr. Legitt, as regards 
you: do you think that you have done quite the 
honorable thing? 

Fred. In what way, sir? 

Dimple. Why didn't you think that I expected 
Dora to wed a man of her own class? 

Fred. I undoubtedly did — from what I had 
heard of you. 

Dimple. Yet, you kept from me the fact that you 
are not in her class. 

Fred, (spiritedly.) Well, I am one of the base- 
ball fraternity! Those big-hearted, whole-souled 
fellows! And that is certainly some class. 

Dora. Besides, papa, I told Mr. Legitt. that, 
although you were an enthusiast on baseball, he had 
best, for a while, not speak of his occupation. 

Fred. And I dissented— thinking it best to tell 
you. 

Dora. Yes— but finally, owing to my persua- 
sion, gave in. 

Dimple, (with dignity.) Well, Mr. Legitt, you 
have had your say : and now will you do me the 
kindness to leave the house — and never enter it 
again. 

Dora, (mildly) What—? 

Fred, (proudly-) Yes, you have my promise. 
(Starts to go) 

Dimple. Wait a second. — And never again to 
speak to Dora? 

Fred, (zuincing.) I don't know whether I could 
keep such a promise, even if made. 

Dimple. You must make it; and you can and 
must, keep it. 



Fred, (mournfully-) Well, I will try. (starts 
to leavs.) 

Dora, (unldly and tearfully, after running to 
Fred, and clutching him.) Why dear papa, I 
thought you likedl baseball and baseball players ! 

Dimple, (recalling a forgotten fact.) Yes; I do, 
I do! 

DoR.\.. You go to a game, almost every other day, 
and you seem so enthusiastic, when you return — and 
you are always talking about it to your gentlemen 
friends, and to me. 

Dimple, (enthusing.) Ah, like the most of men, 
I love the sport! In fact, I would rather go to a 
good ballgame than to eat ! 

DoR.\. You know the game thoroughly: and of 
course are able to appreciate the fine points made 
in the playing. 

Dimple. Yes, I am what is called, a fan. 

Dora. You even know many of the players, by 
name: and often return, enthusiastic, over some 
exploit or stunt, that one or more of them has 
performed. 

Dimple, (enthusing more.) Yes, that is pie, 
for me! (Reminiscent) Why, only yesterday— 

Dora, (eagerly.) Oh yes, what was that you 
were so delighted over yesterday ! 

Dimple, ('ccith enthusiasm.) Why, it was the 
finish of the game: the Champion Giants looked 
like sure losers — with only one man on the bases, 
two of their batters already put out, and the visiting 
club one run in the lead — when up comes to the 
bat the right-fielder, a big fine-looking fellow: I 
can't recall his name ; but he is a new prodigy, who 
recently joined the club. The pitcher tosses him 
the ball, and he misses it, and the umpire calls 'one 
strike' — this happens again: and only one more 
failure to hit, spells defeat :— the pitcher again tosses 
— ah, I am all unstrung — when with a whiff, and a 
bang, the bat connects squarely with the ball, driving 
it way out into center field— and around the bases 
flies the hero — scoring the winning run! By jove, 
it was the finest thing I ever saw done ! I say right 
here, that fellow can have anything I have got — and 
I mean it ! 

DoR.\. Oh papa, it must have been grand! Your 
vivid recital carried me away! (Proudly) I think, 
Mr. Legitt said he belonged to the Champion Giants, 
papa! Wasn't that the name F-Fred? 

Fred. Yes, I am their — right-fielder. 

Dimple, (aghast-) Why you don't say so Leg- 
itt! I thought there was a familiar look about 
you! (looking him over) Hah, I believe you are 
the very man that brought in that winning run. 

Fred. Yes, Mr Dimple, I am the identical man. 

Dora, (skipping happily.) Oh what a romantic 
surprise — my Fred is that hero! (Goes to her 
father.) So. that fellow can have anything you 
have got, eh? Well that fellow picks me— don't 
you Fred? 

Fred, (ecstatically.) Certainly! Of course! 

Dimple, (perturbed.) Oh, that is nonsensical. 



DORA DIMPLE S BEAU 



Dora. Was not that your emphatically made 
offer? 

Dimple. Y-Ycs— but I spoke it in the exhuber- 
ance of the moment : it is not binding. 

Dora. And yet you often proudly say that you 
brokers trade in millions without any writing— that 
your word is as good as your bond. 

Dimple, (proudly.) Yes, that's gospel truth! 
We brokers are all fond of fun; and often say 
ihings that are meant as a joke, and are taken that 
.vay: but when we say a thing, and really mean 
it— our word IS as good as our bond. 

Dora. Well, you really meant this; didn't you? 

Dimple. Y'-Yes,— but Dora, for you to marry 
a mere professional baseball player, is simply not 
10 be thought of,— although I am sorry: and 
disappointed too. for I had set my heart on Fred 
as a sori-in-lavv ! 

Dora, (embracing her father.) 
is it impossible? 

Dimple. (fondles her, then 
of my pride ! 

Dora. Oh. pride, fiddlesticks! 
prejudice! 

Dimple. Prejudice? 

Dora. Yes, and 1 will 
object to Fred's occupation, 
iieing disreputable, do you? 

Dimple. Not at all — it is respectable enough. 

Dora. But, while the salary is lucrative, it can 
never bring wealth,— nor social standing, (for that 
comes alone from wealth). Herein lies the real 
objection to his occupation, doesn't it ? 

Dimple. (abashed.) I — T guess that's about 
il — in a nutshell. 



Dear Papa, why 

sternly.) Think 

it is nothing but 



prove it. You don't 
on the ground of its 



DoKA. Then, doesn't that show clearly that you 
have — that which is so prevalent with the rich — the 
proud man's prejudice against the humble man? 

Dimple, (visibly touched, thai reflecting.) By 
jove. Dora, you might be right — and I begin to feel 
that you are right! (After a paii^e, to Fred) So, 
take her, Fred my boy ; she is yours ! 

Fred, (rushing and embracing.) My own 
darling Dora! 

EtoRA. My own dear Fred ! 

Fred, (embracing again.) Oh, 1 am inexpress- 
ibly hai)py ! 

Dora, (naively.) The same way here! 

DiMi'i.E. (supremely happy.) Well you both 
certainly look it — my beloved! 

Dora, (embracing her father.) Oh you dear kind 
grand papa! 

Fred. Oh how I thank you, Mr. Dimple, for this 
rare gift! (They shake hands warmly.) I sliall, 
sir, further show my deep sense of gratitude, by 
being in every way worthy of Dora! And tlie high 
social position she occupies. 

Dimple. I have perfect faith in you, Fred! 

Fred. Isn't it delightful, that you. (my father- 
in-law, to be), are a lover of the National Game! 

DiMPUi. Isn't it deli.ghtful, that you, (my son- 
in-law, to be), are one of its bright particular stars! 

Frfjx (embracing Dora.) Oh, Dora, darling! 
it will be an easy task — because it will be a blissful 
task— to make you a loving, adoring andl devoted 
liusband ! 

Dora, (gayly.) Just as easy as rolling off a log! 

(Curtain) 



Me2' 



